


The Abrelkan Saga Book 1 | Slave

by AgentCoop



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy, Gladiators, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Orgy, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Slaves, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Swordfighting, Top Steve Rogers, War, gladiator steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-09 10:50:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: Steve Rogers is the leader of the nomadic Kaelish warriors, guiding their fight against the massive Lliadan Empire. When Steve is captured, all hope seems lost. He is forced into a cruel life as a gladiator and slave to the Barnes family--leaders of Lliad City.It's a new life of political intrigue, manipulation, and betrayal, but he will not go down without fighting. And when Steve is given to General Barnes's son? He finds he may have an unlikely ally in his plans to usurp the Empire.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I will be updating once a week with new chapters until July 1st when it will be officially completed. I really hope you all enjoy. It has been a huge passion project that I am incredibly obsessed with and I don't think I plan to leave this universe anytime soon ;)
> 
> ***Graphic Violence and Dub-Con Warning***
> 
> Please be aware that this fic includes slaves performing sexual favors for members of the elite class. I have done my absolute best to always give agency in these situations, and in the case of Steve, he is fully aware of what is expected of him and agrees, but because of the nature of slavery it is at BEST a dub-con situation. I've included the rape/non-con warning because of this!
> 
> **Thank Yous!**
> 
> Thank you so much to the amazing [Crow Sizna](http://crow-sizna.tumblr.com) for inspiring this entire fic with one incredible work of art!
> 
> Once again, I had a blast participating in the [Captain America Reverse Big Bang](http://capreversebb.tumblr.com). The mods are incredible, and it's just so much fun. 
> 
> And finally, thank you [Dani](http://mystrana.tumblr.com)!! Thank you so much for reading and supporting this from the very beginning. Couldn't have gotten this far without your help!

 

The foot soldiers crept forward in the early morning under cover of fog and rain. The heavy drizzle muted the sound of leather foot falls and clinking chain mail. It glistened on swords held at the ready. The small force of only eighty men had been sent ahead to scout and clear the way--detached from the larger legion that was stationed six leagues away. The Lliadan empire was expanding throughout Abralkar and legions of soldiers been charged with dismantling the rebellion in the outlying villages, quickly and quietly.

They’d found it more difficult than expected.

A sudden wind gusted past a militia man and he paused, the bearded soldier behind stopping short.

“Keep moving, Claudius.”

Claudius turned--listening. “Do you hear that?”

“The wind? Yes. And the rain. And this blasted mud squelching under foot. Move.”

“It’s him, Jovian. I know it’s him.”

“Fucking hell, kid, he can’t be two places at once. We had reports just yesterday of his group taking out the fourteenth cohort at Lundgraen, twenty leagues west.”

“It’s him. It’s the Beast of Kael. It’s him, and his men and we’re going to die.”

Jovian gave a quick shove and marched past Claudius grumbling, “fucking new recruits. Fucking, superstitious recr--”

The first arrow took him in the neck and he fell backwards, blood pooling and seeping into the dark mud.

The horns sounded and the men started to jog. Claudius was forced along with the rest, his mouth fixed in a permanent rictus of a howl. They tripped and jumped as bodies fell around them, but they followed the sounds of the brass, and moved toward the faint flickering lights of the village below.

There shouldn’t have ever been a problem. The village was reported to hold at most fifty clansmen under the leadership of an old and dying Shaman. Eighty should have been enough, Claudius thought.

It should have been enough.

The Lliadans ran, and clansmen descended upon them from the surrounding mists, painted in white, blending in with the fog. They shot arrows fletched with vivid yellow, and they stabbed with knives laced with poisons, and they screamed with victory as they fought for their lands, and their wives, and their children.

There was one, the leader of the clansmen, who killed with a lethal grace and beauty. He moved through the ranks of men as they formed up and sliced through flesh and bone before they screamed. His men followed behind in his wake, guarding his flank and moving in sync like some glorious dance of death.

The Lliadans died face-down in the earth, squealing, begging for their mothers. They crawled through the rain clutching their organs to their chests and pleaded with their God, with any God. They died with looks of terror on their faces as the painted men spit blood upon them in victory and chanted their leader’s name in glorious rhythm: _“The Beast of Kael has come!”_

As the sun rose on the bloodied plain, a lone man on horseback crested the hill. The General looked down on the battle below and smiled. This Beast was well worth the cost of eighty foot soldiers.

He turned and signalled--a flourish of the wrist, and the full Lliadan legion moved in.

Steve heard the women and children screaming and begging; each cry of fear and desperation tore at his soul. Smoke from the burning village was heavy in the air, surrounding them all. It coated his throat with each inhalation. He was on his knees now with his arms and wrists tied behind him and a thick collar of steel around his neck. His remaining men knelt beside him--all similarly bound. He felt warm blood dripping down his face as he looked up at the man standing in front of him.

“The mighty Beast of Kael is it? You and your boys have caused me more than a bit of trouble.” He fiddled with the thick chain leash for a moment and pulled, and Steve stiffened at the pressure from the collar. Your little game of revolution isn’t quite so fun now that the screams are coming from your own village, is it?”

Steve stared up at him in fury and tried to contain the tremor that passed through his body. His fists tightened reflexively, and more blood dripped from his hair into his eyes as he snarled.

“I will kill you. I’ll kill you all.”

The General smiled, but it was a sickly thing that didn’t spread to his whole face. He turned and nodded to a soldier standing beside him, who moved off towards a small cottage. Steve tracked the soldier and tried to steady his beating heart. There were bodies of the villagers scattered about the forest floor--all executed as they tried to run. He breathed a calming blue and it shivered to life despite the taste of rage and fear.

The elder Shaman was being hacked to pieces and blue flickered out.

“We’ve had enough of this…” The General paused, searching for a word that seemed to disgust him, “rebellion, if you will. This is our land. If you will not obey the laws of that land, if you will not fight for the empire when called, then you are our enemy.” He motioned to his guard and they stepped up behind Steve, behind his clansmen, and slit their throats. Steve watched in horror as his friends all fell beside him, face down in the dirt. He could taste the smoke in his mouth now, feel the heat of the flames behind him.

“As it seems you are...the supposed leader who birthed this little uprising, I have something particularly special saved.” He looked back towards the cottage where the soldier was pushing a tall woman out in front of him. She was yelling at him and clawing at his face, and Steve’s heart pounded against his chest. He was so angry and so helpless and so afraid. He licked his dry lips and tasted blood. Tasted Lliadan blood.

“What’s your name.” Steve spat out the words, forcing them through his swollen mouth.

“Now, why would that concern you, my Beast?”

Steve growled and flung himself forward, but the chain pulled taught and the metal collar around his neck choked him. He gasped for a moment, gathering his air. “I’d know the name of the man I’m going to kill.”

The General smiled then.

“Do you know what we do to traitors in Lliad, Steve?”

“Don’t,” he whispered.

The woman was shrieking now and the soldier threw her down in front of them both where she turned and looked to Steve. Her eyes were red, and her hands and bare legs were stained with blood. She reached out, but the soldier fisted his hand through her hair and held her back. The General knelt down and pulled a knife.

“Please. I’ll stop it. I’ll call it off. I’ll--”

“Surely it’s nothing you savages haven’t seen. Nothing worse than the crimes you’ve committed against the empire.” He made a motion with his fingers, and the soldier released the woman. She crawled forward, through the dirt and mud. Steve tried to reach her, tried to pull forward enough, but as her fingertips brushed Steve’s knee, the General stepped forward and pulled her up.

“Traitors to the empire get the privilege of watching their loved ones die first. Don’t worry. We provide a clean death.” He drew a knife across her throat and she gasped as the blood flowed out in gushing, spurting streams. She struggled to draw a breath through the fluid. Steve’s heart ached and shattered in his chest, but he held her gaze the entire time. She reached out to him and he tried to move. He pulled so hard against the rope that he felt blood start to flow from his chafed wrists, and he choked himself in desperation once again against the hellish collar. She tried to crawl to him and he watched her eyes, whispered across to her as tears fell down his cheeks.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, Eilidh. I love you. I’ll be with you soon. I love you.”

She died on the ground in front of him, and he couldn’t reach her.


	2. 1

The cart swayed and bounced along the dusty road, shoving the men up against each other uncomfortably with each movement. The dirt path had given way to paved cobblestone a couple of leagues back; they were nearing the city. The slave cart was closed in on all sides, and the men sat twelve to each bench; skin to skin, each foot manacled to its neighbor. The heat was oppressive. They were all shadowed by the wood planks--each with small circular holes cut near the top to let in just enough air to breath. Not enough to breathe comfortably. Enough to feel like choking on the thick, used-up oxygen.

Steve held himself stiffly, trying to keep his balance with each tilt and wave of the wagon. He kept his breathing steady and small, trying to meditate, trying to enter battle readiness. Sweat prickled uncomfortably as it trickled down his brow and back, and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air. The man to his right sat curled in on himself--eyes closed and murmuring some incessant verse or prayer under his breath. He’d been at it since they picked him up in another small village four days earlier. Steve wanted to smash his face in with his fist. He didn’t. He knew what it felt like to want to pray.

The cobblestones grew steadier underneath them and the cart moved more smoothly. He could hear the dense, muted sound of villagers around them, and could see dancing shadows flicker and play in the brief dots of sunlight. They were nearing Lliad City and would be at the gates within the hour.

He breathed in sharply, suddenly, and coughed, then tried to still himself once again. His hands were starting to shake.

He’d made his first escape attempt two days after the initial capture. The slave cart was emptier back then--only six other men, all of them old and broken. Steve had picked their locks under cover of darkness and led them past the sleeping soldiers, past the alert sentries. They made it to the woods, and lasted two hours before they were captured again. The men were too slow. They held him back.

He refused to leave them behind.

They lined the men up shoulder to shoulder in the cool shade of the trees and chained their hands together once again. A soldier with a hooked nose and dark eyes pulled Steve up and told him to stand. Then he lashed all the men but Steve until they were bleeding, screaming, begging on the needled floor of the forest. As they each collapsed, the chains pulled harder on Steve’s wrists, until he finally fell to his knees next to them. He waited for his turn, but it never came. The soldier held Steve’s eye and nodded once to his dquad, who forced the slaves up and marched them back to the wagon.

The message was clear enough. _If you try to escape, they will be punished._

His soul was stained with the death of his village. The other slaves looked at him with anger, with hatred. He swallowed the shame.

He tried again two weeks later. They’d picked up more men--enough to fill their cart. There was another wagon now up ahead, with women and children. They were from villages like his, villages that rebelled. The bright hues of the remaining living Kaelish would quickly fade to grey as they were sold as servants, slaves, and gladiators.

He escaped on his own this time, when a woman suddenly broke down and charged the soldiers, shrieking and screaming. She died on their swords, sobbing out the names of her slaughtered children. Steve flinched as her wails echoed in his head. But he ran.

They didn’t catch him that first night. He was elusive, a ghost, the Beast of Kael. He stayed near the camp though--couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He wouldn’t leave them behind. He wouldn’t let their stories die in the ashes of their burnt-out villages. He thought about waiting until dark on the second night and sneaking in under cover of campfire smoke and trees. He thought about releasing them to run, then throwing himself at the Lliadans, taking as many of them with him as he could.

He thought that would be a poor demonstration of his anger. A poor panacea for the death of his wife.

In the end he waited too long, and it didn’t matter.

They circled in behind him on the afternoon of the second day and brought him down screaming. He kicked out and clawed, and wrapped his arm around the neck of an armored guard. By the time the others pried him away, the soldier was dead, eyes fogging over. The Lliadans dragged him back to the camp and tied him to the lashing post in the center of the base, his arms stretched high above his head. He fought, and he snarled, screaming obscenities and waiting for the lash to fall.

It didn’t.

They marched out one of the captives from his wagon--a young child, fifteen at most. The boy begged, trying to kneel, and when they forced him forward he desperately tried to stay on his feet. He was terrified.

Steve stopped, and called out to the soldiers. He panicked, heart pounding and blood rushing to his face. He screamed out, voice hoarse and he swore he’d stop. He promised. He was done. It was over.

They marched the child up to the post, turned him to face Steve.

“This is the leader you would follow?”

The boy shook his head wildly, trying to choke out words. He didn’t understand--didn’t speak the universal language of Abralkar, only spoke mongrel Kaelish. Steve held his eyes and tried to swallow. Tried to breathe. “Sioch. Ta kearch leor. _Peace. It’s alright._ ”

The boy stared at him--hatred in his eyes.

The soldiers laughed and yelled, raucous in their violent delights as they ran the child through, pushing the blade straight through his chest and directly into the exposed wood under Steve’s left arm. They left him there, sagging down on top of Steve. Blood and urine soaked through clothing into his flesh. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw until his teeth felt like breaking. He would not speak.

The body grew cold against him in the evening hours before the Lliadans returned. They kicked the corpse off of the blade and away from Steve. He could see dried tears on the child’s face. The men released Steve’s arms, and they fell dead and useless to his sides. He was marched back, chained back in place on his bench in the wagon, still soaked with the boy’s blood, sticky and drying against him.

His heart shattered into a million pieces. His soul splintered, blackened with the blood he’d shed.

He didn’t try to escape again.

The sound of cheering soaked through the wooden cart slats. The man beside him suddenly spoke louder and faster, continuing his frenzied litany. Steve’s fists tightened on their own accord, and he tried to breathe through the anxiety again, tried to calm his racing heart.

He could smell himself over the stench of unwashed bodies. The smell of copper blood and urine grew stronger each day. They hadn’t let him wash the blood of the child from his skin.

The cheering grew louder and the cart shook as rocks and debris pelted the sides. He looked up across the thin aisle. A large, dark skinned man sat on the bench there, watching Steve with cold brown eyes.

“We’ve arrived.”

Steve nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

“Planning any last minute heroics, _friend_?”

His emphasis on the last word was full of venom. Even with the chains holding him back, he looked extremely dangerous. There were warring figures inked into his skin from thigh to neck and down thick arms. Animals lept and danced across his flesh, and with each breath they seemed to grow. Steve held his eyes for a moment, then straightened suddenly, holding himself steady as the wagon lurched to the side. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, thinking. Testing. “I’m going to slaughter them all.”

The man across from him looked at him incredulously, then barked a sudden laugh. “I’d appreciate if you’d wait until your next owner for that little power play. I’d prefer not to be the next one leaking my entrails at your feet.”

Steve steadied himself and didn’t speak. Each sound he made cracked the dried blood at his lips a bit more.

The man kept eyeing him--looking him over. He seemed to think for a moment, then grunted. “Mabakai.”

Steve licked his lips, tasting the burnt copper there. He swallowed. “Steve.”

“I know who you are, Steve.” The man finally looked away, twisting his neck just slightly to look out one of the peepholes.

“Where are you from, Mabakai?”

He laughed again, a more somber sound this time. “Does it matter?” He turned back to Steve again, gesturing towards the peephole by his head. “Welcome to Lliad City.”

Steve swallowed, as his heart beat frantically in his chest. The cart jostled its way through the cheers and he heard a heavy thump as the city doors closed behind them, trapping them inside.


	3. 2

The sun beat down on Bucky from its position in the late afternoon sky, and he blinked droplets of sweat from his eyelashes before focusing once more on the slow, dance-like movement of his body. He held his sword out in front of him, slowly moving between extended motions. His arms were shaking with strain and concentration and he focused on each breath in, trying to create a circular movement of air intake while counting specific beats. Sweat dripped down his bare chest, and he could feel the heat searing and baking his skin.

“Ho! Pretty boy!”

Bucky grimaced and let the sword fall to his side as he turned to the speaker, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his mouth. “Marcus!” He nodded and walked over to the clean white sand pathway that surrounded the practice arena. He reached out and clasped the taller man’s arm to his chest in greeting.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Marcus squeezed Bucky’s hand in return, then stepped back again, leaning on his sword and managing to exude a warrior’s confidence as well as an easy nonchalance.

Bucky shrugged a bit. “It’s called a _cleachtadh_.” He frowned as his tongue stumbled over the foreign word. “Cle-ach..tu. Clee-ach..oh fuck it.” He picked up the scabbard lying on the ground next to Marcus and sheathed his blade. “I picked it up from one of the gladiators. It’s a warm up ritual. Helps focus the mind and body--” he paused and looked over at Marcus who was rolling his eyes.

“Fucking hell. You learned it from a gladiator?” Marcus paused and his nose crinkled as if even the taste of the word on his tongue was foul. “I’d think you of all people wouldn’t want to be close to those savages.”

Bucky grimaced and wiped at his brow again. “They’re still human.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We could stand to learn a thing or two from their battle technique. And it feels good. Stretches. Takes a lot of focus.”

“Hey, if you want to waste hours of the day in the hot sunlight dancing, be my guest.”

“It’s not dancing,” Bucky mumbled, even as he knew how ridiculous that sounded. It was actually a lot like dancing. And like meditation. And like everything Lliadan fighting was not. But he liked it--it felt peaceful. And his muscles were already burning from the short session, so it must be doing _something_.

“Clee...tu…” Marcus was stumbling over the word now. “Ach! Well, show me sometime. It looked interesting.” Suddenly, bells started ringing from the temple in the city square and Marcus looked up. He grabbed Bucky’s arm and started walking, pulling the smaller man along beside him. “Your father’s home. He’s asking for you.”

Bucky stopped, and jerked his arm away. “You’ve waited till now to tell me? Fucking hell, Marcus.”

“Sorry.” Marcus grinned sheepishly. “He rode in a few hours ago at the head of the army. Seems as though they were successful. Rooted out a good remainder of the rebel clansmen.”

Bucky looked towards the high walls of the domus ahead and started walking again, quicker this time.

“He’s in the pits.”

Bucky sighed. “Of course he is.”

“I’ve already heard rumors that they caught him. The Beast of Kael.”

“Lovely.” Bucky didn’t turn back to engage Marcus in conversation again, but kept walking. Marcus just matched his stride and pulled up next to him again.

“I’m very much looking forward to seeing him fight. I wonder how long it will take to kill him!”

“He’s still a man, Marcus. They all are men. They had homes. Wives. Lovers. Children.”

Marcus laughed. “You are a terrible Lliadan.”

Bucky nodded once and clenched his teeth. They entered the small armamentarium attached to the training fields and he picked up his tunic from the wooden bench, wiping himself down as best he could before securing the linen with his belt. Marcus watched him, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re going to see your father looking like that?” “Well, I hardly have time to draw up a bath at this point. I’m sure he’d prefer my stinking presence over waiting for me to show up”

Marcus nodded slowly, and shrugged. “Oh to be royal.”

“You’re royal too, you ass.”

“Oh, to be _the_ royal.”

Bucky couldn’t argue with that. He was the first son of the General of Lliad City. If he wasn’t assassinated, or taken out by his own family, he’d be next in line to oversee the city. The Barnes family had risen to power in the last decade and sat at the very top of the House heirarchy. Someday he’d manage the fighting, the bickering, the constant struggle for power between the major Houses’s of the city. He’d report directly to the Emperor of Lliad and he’d do his best to further their expansion into all of Abralkar.

It was a job with a particularly high mortality rate, and a job he didn’t want.

It was a job he’d been groomed for from birth.

He hung the practice blade neatly on the wall with the other equipment, and saluted to Marcus, who grinned back in return. Then he exited the small arms room, and walked towards the arena in the middle of the city.

“You stink, James.”

Bucky followed his father down the dark, cavernous sub-halls of the pits. It stunk so strongly of blood and sweat that he could taste it with each breath. There was no way his father was actually smelling him, but he stayed quiet.

“We will be hosting a grand games two eves hence. A festival for the ages, to celebrate our victory in eradicating this ridiculous clan uprising. The villages are burning, the men all but slaughtered, and the heroes of their people will fight and bleed for our entertainment.”

“Quite the speech, father.”

General Lucius Barnes turned and eyed him angrily. “Your petulance is unbecoming. You know nothing of ruling a people, son. Our culture likes to be provided its entertainment. You will learn. Or you will die.”

He spit the words at Bucky and stared down at him in contempt. Bucky crossed his arms in front of himself. He bowed ever so slightly, refusing to be cowed. “Yes, sir.”

Lucius nodded, then turned and continued down the hall.“I’ve a new assortment of recruits. They should be quite enjoyable in the arena. And elsewhere.”

They continued walking in silence, turning the sharp corners as the hallways grew tight in their winding maze underneath the arena. The light grew dim, trickling through the sand and wood on the level above to pool in thin slats on the stone ground. Bucky inspected his father as they walked. He watched his proud gait and straight back and unconsciously emulated the form. Lucius was a tough man to live under, but he had an incredible mind for politics and war. As a child, it was Bucky’s dream to ride at the head of an army just like his father; spurring them to victory and becoming the new pride of the Empire.

He shook his head. Children had such silly fancies.

At last, they stopped in front of a thickly barricaded wooden door, which Lucius pushed open. Bucky nodded to the Lliadan guards who stood at the entrance. One spared him a smile, then saluted to Lucius and spoke formally.

“All yours, sir. They’ve been bathed and oiled. Clothed. When you are finished here, we will take them up to the ludus to prepare for tomorrow.”

The new gladiators lined the far wall, standing at attention, though their feet and hands were manacled. Lucius stepped up, scanning the line and Bucky followed. Sweat started to prickle at the back of his neck. He never had the stomach for this part.

There were eight men in total this time--all heavily muscled and heavily scarred. Bucky followed his father down the row, stopping periodically while Lucius looked each man over with an almost predatory gaze. A dark skinned man stood at the head of the line and followed Bucky with his eyes. Bucky quirked his head, watching him. He had tribal tattoos snaking their way from his upper thigh, around his midsection, and all the way up to his neck. They were woven in intricate patterns and designs with all sorts of different animals emerging from the complicated knot-work and dancing over his skin with each small movement. They were probably meant to terrify and inspire fear. Bucky found them incredibly beautiful.

The gladiators of the Lliad Empire had were all carefully chosen from groups of captured Kaelish soldiers. They’d been on the front lines fighting for their lives and their families, sometimes leading entire armies and sometimes fronting smaller militia type forces. They were savage and feral. Most barely spoke the universal Abralkar tongue and lived in squalor in small villages hidden in the woods. Yet somehow they had risen up at the mere suggestion of Lliadan control and had fought with a fierce loyalty to their nomadic people.

The Lliadan Empire didn’t care much for a race of people who refused to bow to civilized authority. The armies had closed in and decimated the rebellion, choosing carefully a select few to live and serve. Kaelish women as house slaves; wet-nurses for their babies, bed warmers for Lliadan men and women alike. Kaelish men as gladiators for the masses and pleasure slaves for the wealthy. It terrified Bucky. He felt like he was the only one who could see the flaws--the fatal cracks in the system. If the slaves rose up, if they were allowed to gain even an ounce of autonomy, they could control every piece of the Lliadan infrastructure. And they would destroy it all.

Bucky pulled back as his father stopped in front of him and addressed the next slave in line.

“You look better without the blood of children staining your skin.”

The statement was so cold, so barren. Bucky looked up and watched the man before him. His jaw was tense, and his fists were held so tightly with rage that his muscles were straining against the heavy iron. His eyes were an icy blue, full of barely suppressed hatred as he looked at Lucius. He was shaking with fury. Bucky shuddered, and the slave suddenly snapped his gaze over.

There was something about him--something incredibly graceful, encased in raw power. Bucky resisted an abrupt urge to reach out and touch him, to feel if he was carved of marble or if he was truly flesh and blood.

The slave snorted, then turned back and spat on the ground in front of Lucius. Bucky held his breath, but his father only smiled.

“My beast. You will be the champion of House Barnes. Men and women both will line up for a single minute of carnal pleasure with your flesh. They will cheer your name, and you will bring honor and glory to Lliad City. To my family.”

“And one morning, you will wake.” The slave spoke quietly. “And I will be there. Sitting softly next to you. Covered in the blood and viscera of your children. Then I will kill you.” He spoke in fluent Abralkan without a trace of an accent as the words flowed from his tongue and stilled the very air.

The room felt warmer, constricted. Bucky tried to catch his breath, but the air was too thick..

“I look forward to seeing your performance in the pits tomorrow.” Lucius turned to the guards. “This one gets thirty lashes. Then bind him to the post in the center of the arena and leave him there until the fight begins. James, come.”

Bucky jolted to alertness and followed his father out. He didn’t look back, but he felt as though he could feel the eyes of the man watching him, long after the door closed, long after they left the arena.

_The waters rose around him and he couldn’t find purchase anywhere. The bodies of children, of animals, floated face down around him and the scent of death was all around; cloying, gagging him. He screamed, but the water flowed into his mouth, cutting off his airways, choking him until he gasped out, sputtering, and rose again._

_There was a man on the side of the bank. He held his hand out and Bucky wheezed in relief, trying to move, trying to swim. There was the body of a woman in the way. She was face up in the waters and he could see her face, beautiful and sad. There was blood all around her, a knife wound through her neck, but she opened her eyes, threw back her head and spoke, “Vengeance is coming.”_

_He pushed her aside, and swam harder towards the man on the bank, sparing only a passing guilty thought for the life he so casually ignored. He was almost there now. He reached out, felt the calluses on worn fingertips. He tried again and used the last of his strength to throw himself forward. The man grasped him and held on and Bucky finally looked up. His hair was the blond of sunlight, and when he smiled, his face melted into softness and perfection._

_His eyes were blue._

_Bucky screamed as the slave let go, and he went under, his lungs filling with water and sand._

Bucky woke, clutching at the blankets, dripping with sweat. His heart was racing, and he sucked in the sweet air around him.

The simple call of an arne echoed through the open windows. It was still dark, but the bird was singing the song of the coming morning. As Bucky’s breathing stilled and calmed, his hand crept down underneath the blankets to rest on his painfully hard erection.


	4. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for Chapter 3**
> 
> Graphic Whipping | Graphic Battle Violence

Steve slept fitfully until they came for him before dawn.

He’d held himself still. Hadn’t helped, but he hadn’t flinched when they strung him up. He stared straight forward at the domus that crested the hill, the moonlight overhead leaving a faint glow about the stone.

In Kael, they also whipped thieves and lawbreakers. There was a tall tree in the middle of his village used specifically for the purpose. The offender would be blindfolded and marched forward as the town gathered to watch. The elders would tie him to the wood--lashing his wrists together so that he couldn’t pull back. They’d give a thick strap of leather tied round a piece of wood to bite down on. They used a switch carved from a branch. Life was birthed from the earth, and it could be taken just as easily. The villagers would watch in complete silence each time the switch fel. After it was over, the elders would release the prisoner and then kneel for their turn. No man was above punishment. No man should rise above the will of the village of the earth.

They hung Steve from his wrists. The Lliadan version of the punishment was far more brutal. He danced on the tips of his toes, trying to balance his weight evenly. The pull on his shoulders was excruciating.

They didn’t give him the courtesy of a gag to bite down on.

He heard the first lash before it fell, but didn’t move, didn’t cry out. He’d been bathed in the blood of children. This would not hurt him.

The whip fell again, and he closed his eyes. How like the savage bastards to use the two pronged leather lash. He focused his mind and breathed in green from the forests, from his home. It suffused him, washed over his hurt. The lashfell again. The call of a foreign bird pierced through the air and the green faded, though he desperately tried to cling to it as long as possible.

He didn’t cry out until the sixth. The lash fell across open wounds, and he jerked forward. For just a moment, his arms took the full weight of his body, then his feet scrabbled forward and found purchase again.

He didn’t beg until the eighth.

He no longer had the strength to hold the weight of his own mass on balancing toes. His body sagged forward, and with a sickening pop, he felt his right shoulder wrench out of the socket.

He gasped with each breath, trying desperately to stop sobbing. He lost count at twelve when he tasted blood and realized he’d bitten through his tongue. Blood dripped onto the sand in front of him. His entire back felt open, felt incredibly cold.

He could hear voices, but they seemed fuzzy and distant.

_“It’s too much.”_

_“Enough! We’re going to lose him.”_

He lost consciousness.

The sun beat down upon his back. He could hear the cries and cheers coming from inside the arena. The games had begun.

Steve tried to pull himself up and move, but his wounds pulled open again, and he sank down to the dusty ground with a moan of pain. His wrists were still roped above him to the hideous post, though the rope was now slack. The blood from where the lashings had carved into his skin during his struggles had long since stopped flowing, but it had left its mark in the dark, dried rivers that covered his arms.

The screams were growing louder now, and he could hear a thumping, growing in intensity until it shook the ground he knelt on. Footfalls on the structure above. The battle must be finishing--the crowd was growing excited.

He moved his head slowly to the left and scanned the area. The post was placed just to the right of the entrance to the arena. As ordered by the General, the guards had left him tied there all morning and afternoon. Every Lliadan who attended the games passed this spot, which explained the sharp smell of urine that emanated from the dirt around him.

Their disdain for humanity sickened him.

He tried to summon colors again to his mind, but they were elusive now, slipping through the cracks like sand. The pain was fragmenting his thoughts.

The cheers stopped suddenly.

The battle must be over, someone had lost. Steve focused on turning his head from side to side, trying to gain some movement and motion back. They’d be coming for him. They’d make him fight like this, sick with the hurt of his injuries. His back pulled as he tried to move to a kneeling position and a warm wetness sluggishly trickled down his spine as the lash wounds opened. He forced himself to his knees and bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

The raucous shrieks of the audience started up again and the doors to the arena opened with a boom. Six Lliadan guards marched out holding pikes, chain, and netting. Steve huffed a laugh that even on his knees, bleeding, he seemed to inspire a healthy fear.

The soldiers cut him loose and pulled him up, and he couldn’t stop the garbled moan from escaping his lips. His right arm hung uselessly at his side--out of socket and swollen purple. He focused on holding on to consciousness, a fleeting thing that seemed to dangle in front of his narrowing vision.

The roar of the crowd grew louder as the guards dragged him to the center of the pit. They let go, and he stumbled, falling to the sand. The sound cut off.

“A gift, to my fine ladies and gentlemen of the court. A gift to the people of Lliad City.”

The sound of the general’s voice echoed clearly through the arena, and Steve winced.

“House Barnes presents to you--the Beast of Kael!”

The sudden din grew to deafening levels, and Steve saw the gates rise from the corner of his eye. The six guards retreated as a large force of gladiators emerged. They spread out and advanced, slowly closing in on him. Steve looked up from his place in the sand slowly. The General--Lucius, he thought bitterly--was standing there watching with a smug look upon his face. Steve ignored the nearing fighters and fixed his eyes on Lucius’s face. If he were to be slaughtered here, like this, then he would die standing.

He saw the son stand and lean over his father. The General listened, and slowly held up his hand. The advancing men stopped.

“A request made by my son.”

The air around Steve seemed to clot, thickening as the crowd grew restless. _They want blood_ , he thought. He swayed, growing dizzy again for a moment.

“Our Beast seems to have lost his claws. House Barnes is not in the habit of slaughtering defenseless slaves--it makes for poor sport! He will have help.”

The audience howled their approval, and Steve turned his head at the sound the next gate that was opening. The seven other slaves who had shared his cart stepped out. Mabakai led them, his eyes full of rage.

“Let the games begin!”

Mabakai stepped out onto the hot sand of the arena. The men behind him followed, spreading outwards and eyeing the armed gladiators. They were all leaders from different villages. All warriors who led their own people in rebellion to destruction. They each thirsted for vengeance.

He raised his fist in the air and screamed in the tongue of his people, and the men behind him shouted their own cries. Then they began to run, bare feet hitting floor of the pit with a muffled slapping sound. Mabakai dropped to his knees and slid under the first of the gladiators, then sprang up again, lithe and nimble--more so than a man of his weight was expected to be. He jumped, throwing his legs around the man’s body quickly, and took him to the ground.

It had begun.

Mabakai held the gladiator in a choke hold, pushing him face down in the grinding sand. Another man jumped on his back and Mabakai roared, throwing himself backwards to pin the man underneath him. He didn’t have time to waste on slow suffocation. The first gladiator scrabbled out of his grip and recovered, jumping back on top of him now. Mabakai punched the man’s back three times in quick succession and pushed him off, but now the gladiator underneath had regained his breath and was groping at his ribs, keeping him down. He couldn’t get free, and a third was moving towards them.

The gladiator suddenly let go as a young, red-haired man smashed a club into his leg, shattering the bone. Makabai scrambled out of the way, saluting his fellow captive.

Makabai breathed deeply and took a second to think. Most of gladiators from the arena held no weapons, only the leather armor they’d been outfitted with. The captives had no weapons, only skin. Not a fight to the death then--just entertainment, with the almost certain promise of “accidental” fatalities. He glanced around, taking in the circular arena. There was an assortment of equipment scattered around the perimeter. He saw another club to his right and a gladiator picking up a length of chain. There was a shield near him, propped up against the wall reflecting the sunlight. He started running again and watched the center of the pit.

The man, the warrior, Steve, was swaying on his feet. But he was standing. Three gladiators surrounded him, but already two were down. Impressive. The sand was turning a dirty rust color underneath him as he bled. Steve was swinging one arm and his feet were moving underneath him so quickly that Makabai could scarcely see .

Mabakai reached the shield at the same time as another man and narrowly missed being brained by a flat wooden practice sword. They scuffled for a moment, but Makabai was a savage, or so he’d been told, and savages had no preconceived notions of propriety. He sank his teeth into the man’s cheek and bit down, feeling the hot squirt of blood coat the back of this throat. The man screamed from underneath him and Makabai howled, spraying dark gore and flesh. He grabbed the shield and took the sword as well. Then he turned quickly and ran back to the center. He fought through to Steve, caught his eye, and threw him the shield. “Well met, brother! You’ve fared better than expected!”

Steve reached out with his functioning arm and caught it, grimacing in pain, and they stood back to back, daring the gladiators to come. “You’re in awfully high spirits.”

Mabakai smiled, and threw up his left arm, shouting to the sky, the sun, the Gods. “It’s a moment I live. It’s a moment worth celebrating. It’s a moment I’d appreciate seeing you do some actual work!”

Two of the captives were down, writhing in pain on the ground, but there were still five left standing, fighting off as many gladiators. Steve had taken down two gladiators on his own, and Mabakai was responsible for two more. He turned his head around the ring, and counted three more bodies down. There were still five men surrounding them.

Steve grunted, and pushed forward into the surge of men, Mabakai swinging with the strength of three-hundred pounds of pure mass and muscle. He caught one soldier in a sideswipe to the shoulder who collapsed clutching at the now useless limb.

“Don’t kill them!”

Mabakai spared an incredulous glance at the idiotic warrior. “Excuse me?” He bent as a gladiator came at him, and pushed his arm up with all his force, catching the man right under his chin. The man’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground, cradling his head.

“Don’t kill them! They are Kaelish--our men! Disable only!” Steve ducked under the arms of the next, and heaved the rectangular wooden shield above his head. He brought it down with a brute force on the soldier’s already injured arm. He yanked the shield back and fell into place, resting comfortably against Mabakai.

“I’ve one.”

“You have much to learn, boy.” But Mabakai laughed, and the gladiator in front of him looked terrified. Mabakai still tasted the other gladiator’s blood in his mouth and he spit, then snapped forward, head-butting the man. The soldier went down, glassy-eyed. Mabakai swept his blade out again and caught the next man in a startling blow to the jaw.

“Two.”

“Easier with a sword.”

Mabakai swiped out at another gladiator, but the man danced just out of reach and Mabakai lost his balance for a moment. He took a blow to the ribs by a club and gasped, retreating back to the cover of the shield.

“Yes, but I’ve heard rumor that you’re a beast. Don’t you have any claws?”

“I’ve...I…”

He heard the clatter of the shield hitting dirt before he saw it drop, and suddenly Steve collapsed to the ground, succumbing once again to his wounds.

“Ah. Shit.”

Mabakai danced around on the balls of his feet, holding off the gladiators, and looked down. Steve was breathing, but his eyes had rolled back in his head, and there was a steady stream of dark fluid spreading in the sand underneath him.

A man darted in again with that blasted club and hit him square in the shin. Mabakai just grinned at him and dropped down, sliding on his knees and picking up the shield, then nimbly jumping back to his feet.

“Not today I think, you superfluous cunt of a man!”

He was panting hard now. A gladiator in actual platemail sidestepped out of the circle toward Steve, and Mabakai blocked him with the shield, then brought the practice blade down from above. The man’s skull crunched and viscous matter and brain spattered onto the sand.

“You wanted a show, you fuckers.”

He could hear Steve screaming behind him, awake again, but couldn’t make out the words. The crowd was going wild, and all the howling noise turned to ringing in his ears. He dropped the shield to the ground again, then turned and shoved the body away from him into the swing of another man’s chain. As the chain wrapped around the neck of the corpse, Mabakai grabbed and pulled, drawing the living gladiator close. He spit blood in the man’s face as he delivered another crushing blow, this time to the ribs. This soldier went down still breathing, but frothy bubbles of blood were leaking from his lips.

As he swung wildly again, he heard a shout from behind.

“On your right, friend!”

Mabakai roared his pleasure, and as the remaining joined him in the center ring, they worked together to pick off each gladiator easily. He kept his count going, down to three left, two...he threw himself backwards to aim towards the final man, and stopped suddenly--bloody grin widening even more. Steve was up again, moving slowly, but holding the man down by his neck. Mabakai walked over and placed his blade at the soldier’s throat and the gladiator raised his hand as high as he could, yielding.

It was over. He stood heaving and gulping in air for a moment, breathing in the sounds of the arena: the screams, the yells, the raucous cheers for the gladiator victory. He’d been in the circuit long enough to know, that though the General had planned this stage to be an embarrassing defeat of the new and untrained slaves by his champion gladiators, he would smile and cheer with the city, and relish the glory that any captives brought to the family name.

But someone would pay for the two men that were dead.

Mabakai looked at the other slaves to his sides--they were holding their fists in the air and saluting the seats to roars of excitement. He did the same, then bent over and hauled the barely-conscious ‘Beast of Kael’ to his feet. To his credit, the man pushed away with his little remaining strength and stood on his own, before turning and vomiting onto the blood-stained floor. Mabakai raised his hand to thump Steve on the back before reconsidering and settling for a pat. Steve still winced.

“Put your fist up.”

“I will do nothing, you fool. I don’t play their games.” He glanced up briefly, and seemed to hold back nausea. “I told you not to kill them,” he hissed.

Mabakai growled and grabbed the man’s wrist, heaving it up in the air. and the crowd went wild. He could see the men and women in the stands, the frenzied yelling, drinking, fucking. Steve was not supposed to win. Mabakai knew this more than anything else. He was supposed to lie still and take another beating and then die, as payment for his part in the rebellion. He didn’t die, and it thrilled the Lliadrans--excited them to no bounds.

There never was anything quite like a broken man coming up from the depths to claim victory to set them off, the sick fucks.

Steve turned his head and glared at him. He ripped his hand forcefully from Mabakai’s grip.

“I said, I don’t play their games.”

“You think you are the only one here for vengeance, friend? Smile. It pleases them.”

Steve watched him carefully, then turned back to the seats and slowly smiled. The crowd cheered louder and began to stomp on the stands in quickening rhythm, setting a deafening, macabre beat.

“To Lliad!” Mabakai screamed.

Steve’s smile hardened to steel, but he pumped his fist once in the air.

The screams continued as they walked back to the open doors and through to the tunnels under the pit. Mabakai caught Steve in his arms as he lost consciousness again.

Steve came to lying face-down on top of a thin pallet. The cloying scent of strong herbs mixed with the deep richness of the earth. He sighed heavily, and closed his eyes. It reminded him of home.

“You live.”

He turned his head. An older man with grey hair and short greying beard was crouched down beside him, holding a stone pot. He rubbed his fingers along the inside of the jar, then brought them out and Steve saw they were covered in some sort of paste. The man moved out of his sight, and stroked along his back, and Steve whimpered at the sharp flashes of pain.

“You’ve offended someone, I can see. Once they claim a slave as a gladiator, they usually save the more...extreme punishments for only the most extreme of situations.”

Steve buried his head in his arm and scoffed a laugh. Torn and bruised muscles pulled with each exhalation.

“I guess you could say I’m an extreme situation.” He waited while the man finished spreading the unguent over his skin, and sighed out as the stuff set to work, relaxing, warming, relieving pain.

“That’s incredible. What is it?”

“I must have you ready for the after-parties. After your little show in the arena, there are many who would have you attend to their...desires. This will keep the hurt down for now. It will be worse tomorrow. But for now, you will be able to move.”

Steve frowned at the vague answer which only raised more questions. He had no idea what a Lliadan after-party entailed, or why he would need to be present.

“Where am I?”

_“The ludus.”_

_Helpful,_ Steve thought to himself, then hissed as hands pressed into his back once again. “What does it matter if my back heals, if they only plan to throw me back out in the pits again to fight to the death?”

The hands stopped, and the face crept into Steve’s vision once more, peering curiously at him. “You do not know Lliadan culture, it seems.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Talking to this man was like hunting mice for food. Time consuming at best, and almost completely useless for actual sustenance.

“You are a gladiator now. Gladiators rarely fight to the death. You perform. You draw blood. You scowl and stomp and make a mess of yourselves. And I fix you. But you don’t die.”

“Two died this afternoon.”

“So you could live.” A new voice spoke now, deeper and more melodic.

The healer clucked, and drew back again into the shadows as Steve looked up from under his arm. A very large pair of feet stood in front of him. He lifted his head further, and moved back to his knees. _Incredible stuff_ , he thought. His arm was still stiff, but he had a mostly full range of motion again.

“Mabakai.” He rolled back onto his knees and stretched his back. The wounds pulled again, but they were numbed--it was no longer the pinching and ripping of injured flesh he’d felt in that arena.

“You ask where you are. You are in the ludus. The gladiator’s quarters. You should feel satisfied. Most regard this as a place of honor.”

“Most,” Steve scoffed. “You mean the Lliadan brutes who assume that every man lives to serve their perverse whims.”

“You have anger. That is good. I had anger too. You’d do best to get it out now and serve their _perverse whims_ with pleasure.”

“Or what, you traitorous sycophant?” Steve snarled the words. Mabakai may have saved his life in the arena, but then he turned around and played the game like a perfect little puppet on delicate strings. He’d killed Kaelish men. Steve had no use for him.

Mabakai knelt down, eyebrows raised.

Steve took a breath to steady himself, then spoke again, more formally. “I thank you for your coming to my aid during the fighting. But I have no respect for one such as yourself.”

“Who’d they kill?”

“What?” Steve sat back, and rubbed at his wrists and ankles, trying to move circulation back into the near-dead limbs. Trying to ignore the question.

“Who’d they take from you? Who did they kill?”

Steve looked at him in surprise. “Do you know who I am? Do you even know why they call me the Beast? I’m the reason for the uprising. I’m the reason the people revolted and resisted the empire–”

“I know that, you fool. Do not think me an idiot because I am not from your land. I know you are a feared and fabled warrior who led your people into slaughter. No!” He held up his hand as Steve moved to speak, “Do not interrupt. Because that is what you did. You led them to slaughter, and I respect that. I agree with you.”

Steve sat back again, chastened.

“I asked you who they killed. Of _yours_.”

“My wife.” He was surprised that he could speak the words, that they didn’t get stuck in his throat and choke him.

Mabakai nodded. “I am sorry for your loss. Perhaps be thankful that it was a loss.”

Steve jerked his head up again.

“I mean no disrespect, Beast of Kael. I lost my wife, too. My daughters and a son. But they were not killed. They were taken and sold into slavery, and I was left in my ruined village, with nothing but nightmares of unending screams. You asked me where I was from, in that slave wagon?”

Steve nodded. “Yes. You don’t speak like a clansmen, and your Abralkan is tinged with accent.”

“I allowed myself to be captured on the border of my lands. Many miles south, and across a great sea. I have served, and fought, and traveled for years to reach this place, this artery that leads to the empire. I also lust for vengeance.”

“Herzad.” Steve watched the dark man nod once. He’d heard rumors that the Empire’s reach was growing--that they fought to control the entire Straight of Abrelkar. If there was already war in Herzad then the rumors were old, and the Lliadans were already solidly in control of all trade between the countries. There was little hope for the Kaelish clans. They’d be wiped from the map.

“Help me. Please. Help me.” Steve ground out the bitter words and held Mabakai’s eyes.

“It is like I said. You must play their game. You must ingratiate yourself. You must serve and cater to their desires, and you must unfurl tendrils of your thoughts and ideas carefully throughout the city. Like a poisonous black adder, you will whisper your secrets before you strike. You’ve done this before.”

“Kael. The rebellion.” He understood.

“You are a born leader, Steve. I’d heard stories about the Beast in Tusteau. In Palermo. In Lliad.”

“You’ve been in Lliad?” Steve was shocked. “Why are you telling me all of this, Mabakai? You’ve been doing this for years. You know their games! Why haven’t you done something yet?”

Mabakai reached around and felt at the gladiator brand on his right arm. It seemed an almost subconscious move, but Steve suddenly felt the itch of the new brand on his own arm and forced himself to stay still and not worry at it.

“I am a warrior, Steve. And I fight. But I am no leader. I’ve been waiting for one to come. And I think the Gods have sent you.”


	5. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 4 Warnings**
> 
> Dubious Consent
> 
> Graphic Orgy 
> 
> Graphic M/F and M/M Sex

Bucky stood at his balcony, looking down on the city. The last rays of sunlight crept across the land, bathing it in a savage, bloody glow. The streets were full of revelers, celebrating the fights and shows from the afternoon. He could hear the rioting and the screaming of the lower classes as the breeze bent the delicate lilac boughs. The soft scent perfumed the air around him, in deep contrast with the smoky city scene below.

He reached down for his cup and noted with the elasticity of inebriation the soft shimmer of gold that was painted liberally across his skin. The upper class families had their own kind of celebrating to do.

The woman on her knees in front of him stopped her ministrations for a moment, looking up. Bucky took a deep gulp of wine, then motioned her to continue, and he sighed as Antonia closed her warm mouth around his erect cock once again.

Another servant was behind him, rubbing his skin down with a warm oil infused with the golden powder. He took another sip, and closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in the sensations of Antonia’s lips, the sounds of her sucking. He thought of her mouth, of her deep blue eyes. He thought of the long night ahead, of the alcohol, and sex, and haze of debauchery.

He thought of the blue-eyed gladiator.

His eyes flashed open and he jerked away. Antonia sat back on her heels and looked up at him, her lips swollen and red.

“My lord?”

“I’m just not in the mood tonight.” He scowled a bit. “I don’t think I need to worry about anything happening prematurely this evening.”

She wiped at her mouth and stood, rearranging her gown and cupping her hand firmly against Bucky’s cheek. “I’ll try again in a minute, shall I? Let’s get you another cup.” She spoke with an authority belying her station and Bucky nodded his assent. She strode off, hips swaying delicately underneath the gauzy transparent fabric.

The second slave woman behind him drew her hand tenderly up his back and he felt her lips at his ear.

“I’ve finished, my lord.”

Bucky waved his approval and he heard the soft footfalls as she retreated back into the chambers. He moved forward, gripped the handrails, and let the evening air prickle over his naked skin.

He despised the after-party. Even more than the piteous fighting and showmanship of the arena, he hated the pageantry and the waste involved with the ritualistic bacchanales. The elite would oil and paint themselves, then adorn their bodies with gaudy clothing and jewels--anything to bely station. They would drink and eat, while slaves and champion gladiators alike were paraded for all to see. The evenings would devolve into shameless, erotic debauchery set to the backdrop of chaste classical poetry and music.

He was ashamed of his people. They should be better than this. They should know better than this.

Bucky was mostly ashamed of himself for being an all too willing participant in the charade.

Antonia returned to his side with another large goblet of wine, and he drank liberally.

“Come, James. Come to the bed.”

She was a saint. He should be better than this. He’d heard the stories of great warriors, knights, leaders--the mythos that all Lliadan children were all raised upon--and he never understood why the men and women of Lliad didn’t hold themselves to a higher standard of elite. It seemed the age for greatness was over, and now was the time for excess. He let Antonia lead him away from the open air and back into the recesses of his bedchamber as the alcohol finally seeped into his blood. He paused a moment, enjoying the slow fog shrouding his thoughts, and suddenly it didn’t seem to matter quite so much what a warrior such as himself did in his spare time. She pushed him back onto the bed linens and crawled on top of him, lifting her skirts.

He groaned and delighted in the soft wisps of fabric whispering across his skin as she settled on top of him. The softness of her thighs against him as she started to rock ever so slowly was utter torment and he felt his cock rock hard once again. She was so wet, so soft. She bent down over him as she rode him and licked at his neck.

“I’m fine,” he gasped as she kissed along his ear, “really. Fine.”

She put her hand over his mouth and looked at him sternly.

“You always do this. You fight me like you have something better to do. Someone better to do, perhaps.” She tilted her head and smiled at the quip. “Let me please you the way you want to be pleased.”

Her hand moved gently away from his mouth and he gasped as she rocked back on him.

“Antonia, I…”

She held herself away from him for a moment and the sudden loss of her warmth, her body, almost made him cry out.

“I __will__ please you the way you need.”

She lowered herself back down onto his aching cock again, and picked up speed--she’d been with him for years and knew exactly how to move to make him come. It didn’t take long. He felt that familiar heat, deep in his belly and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut as his hands tightened, fisting into the sheets. She grabbed his left hand, held it to her breast, and he came quickly, pleasure washing over him. A torrent of guilt rose just as quickly to take its place. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Why even these basic moments of hard-earned pleasure had to be stained with his lust for a vanished morality.

She leaned down and kissed him gently on the cheek, then swung her leg over and moved off the bed, suddenly business-like.

“I won’t have you embarrassing me at the party this evening. You’ll last longer now.”

He grunted, sated and completely relaxed. The temporary moment of guilt had passed and in the afterglow he felt almost ridiculous. It was her job to relax him, and prepare him for the festivities. Her duty. To his house. He rolled over to his side to grab at his goblet again, lifted the cup to his lips, and drank it all.

The soft strings of the lute echoed and bounced off the vast halls of white marble. Bucky stood with his back against the soft stone, and felt the warmth of his body leech into the walls. It felt as though if he stood still long enough, he would calcify and stand as a statue, forever witness to the wild and raucous celebrations of the upper echelon.

He watched the men and women around him, noted the rich fabrics, the shimmering paint, the sparkling adornments. Each Lliadan who passed seemed to float in an ethereal, shimmering air of perfection. His head felt full of cotton; the smoke from the incense and herbs in the air was making him dizzy.

A tall, beautiful woman was walking towards him. He blinked as she sidled up next to him, fitting comfortably against the wall.

“James.”

“Aliathra.” He turned to watch the daughter of the Emperor. She was swathed from head to toe in a rose colored silk. It wasn’t sheer, like the fabrics preferred by most of the women, but the way it clung to every curve of her body was somehow more sensual. Bucky bit his bottom lip, and turned his eyes back to the party. Liat was a very dangerous woman.

She nudged closer, and he could feel the softness of her hip against his flesh.

“Did you want something?”

“I was disappointed by the fight this afternoon. This __beast__ your father has curated gave a rather depressing show.” She sighed dramatically and fingered at the fabric, as though scratching an itch. It fell open, ever so slightly, revealing the milky white skin of her inner thigh.

“I’ll be sure to let him know. Perhaps next time we can have him whipped during the event. If the wounds don’t have time to harden and scab up, maybe he will move a bit quicker.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Bucky peeled himself away from the wall and strode away. Engaging with Liat was something he tried to avoid when at all possible. Bucky walked around the corner and paused for a moment. The ground had stopped it’s gentle sway and he determined that he needed another glass of wine. He caught the eye of a slave and motioned to him, then turned and found himself face to face with his father.

“Interesting stunt you pulled earlier, __son__.”

General Barnes approached, a small censer dangling on his wrist. It was the highest fashion right now to burn certain herbs that not only released a pleasant scent into the air, but also caused a warm fuzzing of the mind, not unlike the wine being served in liberal amounts. Bucky couldn’t stand the way the spiced scent made his stomach turn. Bucky looked past him, to the chaise lounge by the pool. He could see Aeneus and Evander there, surrounded by other women of the court, and Marcus was already deep in the pool, naked and splashing water with a couple other men.

“I did you a favor.” He tried to keep the scorn out of his voice, but it snuck in, poisoning his words. “That Beast was a legend to his people. He will bring more honor to our house alive than he will in death.”

Lucius cocked his head and a smile flickered snake-like over his face. “I think your mind for court politics is growing. I’ve no intention of punishing you for your indiscretion. You were right.”

Bucky snapped his gaze to his father’s face and studied him, looking for that hint of mockery that was so frequently present when Lucius spoke to his eldest son. He found only pride. He looked down at the dangling censer and grunted.

“I saw you speaking with Aliathra. So wonderful her father sent her to Lliad City.” His words were plain, but the hitch in his tone implied more. __So wonderful to have a spy from the Emperor checking up on us.__ “I’ve a gift for you later.” A contemplative smile crept its way across the General’s face. “I think you will come to appreciate certain benefits that can accompany your station when you aren’t playing the fool and refusing to work with us.”

“I play your games, father. I know how this city and its political schema work.” Bucky looked back over the General’s shoulder again, where he could see Marcus standing now, head thrown back and eyes closed. His chest was heaving as another man surfaced from beside him in the pool. “But you know I don’t agree with how this republic is run.” He spoke softly and carefully, in this very public setting and looked quickly back to his father.

Lucius placed his free hand on Bucky’s shoulder. His face softened, and he looked less like a general, more like an old man. “I know. And I’m terrified it will get you killed, my son.” He wrapped his hand around Bucky’s head and pulled him in close--kissed him on the temple. “I brought you back here to keep you safe,” he whispered in Bucky’s ear. “Please. I almost lost you once.” Then he released his grip, and turned, walking back the way he’d come from.

The words struck him to the core and Bucky stood still for a moment. It was easy to forget that his warmonger father still had the potential to be human at times. He sighed and looked back down at the floor. It wasn’t wavering at all anymore. The slave he’d motioned to earlier seemed to have vanished into thin air. He grabbed another goblet from a serving tray and downed it, then moved over towards the pool and called for his friend.

“Marcus!”

The man looked up from his entertainments. “Bucky! Come in! We’ve room for another!” Bucky grinned at him, but stood his ground at the edge of the rippling water. It was oiled and scented as well, and there was a faint metallic sheen lapping at his feet. Upper echelon indeed. They’d even managed to turn water into gold.

“Seems you’ve hardly managed to satisfy one so far. I’d prove more than you could handle.”

He moved to turn, but found the path blocked by a small, dark woman. She moved in and rose on the balls of her feet to fit her head delicately in the curve of his neck.

“Put your mouth to use and prove it, James.” The newcomer’s voice purred in his ear. Bucky shuddered.

“Hello, Verina.” He caught her wrist as she reached downward, and his cock hardened at the sound of her voice. A haze settled around him, the smoke and the alcohol finally starting to do their jobs, and he felt deliciously muddled and wavering, a blissful sense of not being entirely present. He bent his head down and pressed his mouth against hers, tonguing at her lips until she opened them, letting him in.

She stopped and stepped back holding out her hand, and he took it, following her to the far side of the pool. He heard Marcus laugh again, but it was a faint, ephemeral thing. He looked down and could see Verina’s breasts through filmy gauze intricately wrapped around her lithe body. They sank down into the warm fabric of the pillows that lay waiting, and she lay next to Bucky, kissing his mouth and fingering herself, moaning loudly. Another man knelt next to them, mouthing at Bucky’s neck, his nipples, his inner thighs, eager to please him. Bucky gripped Verina’s hand and stopped her own ministrations, sliding his fingers in their place and she re-positioned herself over him, threw her head back and panted her pleasure.

A servant moved by at some point, and Bucky drank more wine and sank deeper into the ecstasy of the celebration.

He could hear bells ringing faintly in the distance, and the noise of the party enveloped him again. He didn’t care, was too wrapped up in the moment, he fought to relax his mind and return to simple anonymity, until the man next to him released his hand from Bucky’s cock and he suddenly heard the sound of his father’s voice, booming through the halls.

“I present to you, the newest gladiators of House Barnes, led by the Beast of Kael!”

The men and women erupted in cheers and he sat up, limbs heavy and saturated with alcohol. Directly across from Bucky stood a line of eight men. The beast stood in the center of them, flinty blue eyes staring straight ahead, cutting into Bucky like a knife.

The gladiators walked in single file as the General announced their presence, and Steve watched the royalty with steel in his eyes. It was a contained chaos of vice. The upper class stood painted, anointed (much in the way he was now, Steve thought with a grimace) and they pawed at each other like bitches in heat.

The slaves halted at the crest of a large pool and Steve stood in the center of the gladiators. Across the water he could see the son with two other Lliadan’s, lounging, brazingly exposed. Steve hated him.

The general paused, and walked down the line of gladiators, inspecting each one, before stepping away to address the hall again.

“House Barnes’ gift to all. The pleasure of a warrior for the evening.” He walked around the line again, and came up behind Steve, wrapping his hand around Steve’s throat and stroking gently. It was a soft movement, but it spoke of hidden violence.

“The Beast is reserved for my son. A warrior for my own warrior.”

Steve watched the general’s son swaying slightly from across the pool, and softly growled in irritation. He found himself thankful for the smoke they’d been forced to inhale prior to their entrance--the smoke that was making his cock stand erect, and his blood run quickly in his veins. It was also making his head swim with confusion, and he could almost will himself to disappear under that raging current.

“Go to him,” Barnes whispered in his ear, and Steve spared a glance to Mabakai who stood at his right. The gladiator inclined his head, as much of an assent as he could give, and Steve stepped forward, playing along.

His limbs felt heavy with desire, and his body was too hot, despite the fact that he was wearing only a small breechcloth. As Steve approached, the second man and woman on the couch stood, adjusting their clothing. They left the general’s son alone against the pillows. His chest was bare, his clothing pushed down around his waist and Steve saw the glistening of sweat on his chest. He looked up at Steve with hazy eyes, beautifully bare--like a piece of perfectly carved marble. Steve wanted to reach out and touch his skin, and the thought made him shiver.

The dark haired woman reached out as she moved past and scratched the tips of her fingernails down his bare chest. He froze and broke off his gaze--turned to her instead. She maintained eye contact as she bent her head, and licked at the blood beading, then pulled away. Steve still didn’t move.

“Oh James, this one will be perfect for you.” She reached up and pulled at Steve’s hair, tugging his head down to her eye level and barely whispered the next words. “Be good to him, slave.” Then she was off, dragging the other man away with her and leaving the pair alone.

James moved to stand, but Steve strode forward and pushed him back down to the pillows, and moved in, straddling his hips. James stared up with glassy eyes, but held himself up on his elbows. Steve pushed forward and their noses touched for a brief moment--a moment that seemed frozen in time. Something tugged deep within Steve’s chest. A warmth, a blooming sadness. He gazed into those brown eyes and swore he could see it reflected.

James swallowed and his eyes fell to Steve’s chest. He hesitated for a second, tense underneath Steve. “My father-”

Steve held a finger to his lips, and bent his head, licking down James’s chest and around one erect nipple. The young man’s heartbeat quickened underneath him and Steve’s cock grew impossibly harder in response. It was a betrayal of his body. __It’s the drugs.__ Steve shifted down sluggishly and took James’s cock into his mouth, swallowing him whole, then jerking in surprise as the man grabbed at his hair and pulled him back up.

“You don’t have to do this. We can go somewhere else. More private.”

“I want to.” Steve’s voice was gruff, sounded too harsh in his ears. He didn’t know what he wanted. James tried to squirm out of his grip, and Steve grabbed his shoulders, putting his full weight on top of him and holding him down. Then lowered his head again and kissed down James’s chest--felt him shudder underneath. “I want to,” he repeated.

As the slave bent his mouth to Bucky’s cock again, goosebumps spread from his neck down his arms. The slave did something incredible with his tongue as he licked up and around the tip, and Bucky arched his back and yelped his pleasure. He’d had too much wine. He wasn’t normally the evocative sort…

He moaned again as it happened once more.

The slave, the Beast, looked up at him from under hooded eyes and slowly released him, took up stroking his sensitive cock with the tips of callused fingers. His eyes were hard, full of barely contained violence, but when he spoke again his voice was quiet.

“Enjoying yourself, boy?”

Bucky clenched his teeth as the man’s fingers danced up and down delicate skin.. He varied his grip, stroking down hard, then back up gently. It was all too much, too many sensations. The slave shouldn’t be talking to Bucky this way. He struggled to form words around the pleasure bubbling up.

“Watch your place, slave. You can’t be more than five years my senior.”

The slave quirked an eyebrow. “My place appears to be above you at the moment. _ _Boy__.” He lowered his head once again and went back to his calculated attentions with his tongue and Bucky wanted to cry out. He held it in, and instead closed his eyes, tried to think through the haze of wine and sensation. No slave should ever order a royal about in this way.

No royal should ever enjoy it.

Something about that voice, the command, the condescension, the barely concealed ferocity sent shivers up Bucky’s spine. The chance to be dominated, to give up command and for once obey...

The slave started sucking harder. Bucky watched him breathing hard but practised as the slave pushed against him.. The sight of the the gladiator holding his entire length in his mouth was almost too much. He was already on the verge, despite Antonia’s careful ministrations earlier in the evening. He was going to come, and his stomach muscles tightened, trying to hold on. The slave’s eyes flickered up, a glimpse of bright blue strength that proved too much. Bucky gasped out as his orgasm hit him, and he watched the Beast of Kael on his knees above him swallowing again and again.

Bucky fell back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard. The slave licked him clean, before carefully climbing off of his lap and lying down beside him. Bucky turned his head. The slave was watching him, silent now but no less intense. His breathing slowed, and Bucky swallowed once before speaking.

“Do you have a name?”

“Your father calls me Beast.”

Bucky grimaced. “I know that. Do you have a real name?”

The slave looked sad for a moment, a glimmer of something new, then seemed to set himself back to the cold mask of ferocity.

“Steven. Steve.”

Bucky nodded and whispered, “Steve.” He reached out a hand carefully to his face and Steve flinched, but held still, letting Bucky touch his cheek. Then Bucky looked down and saw Steve’s cock, enormous, and tenting his breechcloth. He grinned. “Your turn, Steve,” and moved his hand down.

Steve grabbed his wrist tightly, painfully, and held it. “Do not.”

Bucky looked at him, confused. Again with the orders. He should not speak this way. Bucky should berate him, order his punishment.

A thought rose unbidden and he wondered what the Beast of Kael could teach him about war. What Steve could teach him, of how the Kaelish clansmen fought. He wanted to watch him train, wanted to practice with him, wanted to watch those perfect cut muscles move in the practice yards, and then move again on top of him, sweaty and dust covered. He felt Steve move next to him, and his cock brushed against his thigh.

“It’s ok,” Bucky whispered. “Let me.”

The hand around his wrist tightened and Bucky gasped, his bones grinding under Steve’s grip.

“I said no.”

“Alright, it’s alright...I,” Bucky tried to pull back, but Steve held him there, not moving. He tried to think of something to say, heat rising to his cheeks at the unwavering stare. He suddenly felt incredibly exposed, naked, helpless.

“I saw your fight. I’m impressed you stayed upright for so long.” He blurted it out, the words rising to his tongue unbidden. They were caustic things, and he regretted bringing up the whipping so callously. Steve released him and sat up suddenly.

“Are you finished with me, my lord?”

Bucky pushed himself up in confusion and rubbed at his wrist. “I...I’m not sure…” He watched Steve sit rigidly, without moving and his head swam as he tried to think of how to regain control, of how to speak without sounding like a pompous princeling.

Steve stood and faced him. “Have you finished.”

It was a statement, not even a question, and he delivered it with venom lacing the words.

Bucky scrubbed at his face, unsure of himself. He summoned up his command voice. “Of course. You are released slave.” His words were crisp and clear. Steve stalked back around the pool and Bucky relaxed again into the comfort of the surrounding pillows. He saw Marcus step up and speak with Steve on the other side of the water--saw him animatedly re-enacting some move likely from the pits earlier. Bucky watched the moment Steve engaged. He saw the swell of his oiled back muscles ripple and reflect the candlelight. He could see still open wounds from his earlier whipping, red and inflamed, and he wondered if Steve was in pain. He moved with the practiced grace and elegance of a man who knew every muscle, tendon, bone throughout his body. Bucky let his eyes wander down to his well-muscled thighs, barely concealed by the breechcloth. He closed his eyes and remembered the way Steve commanded him, _boy…_

He sighed and stood, arranging his linens about himself once more. Steve was standing statuesque now, as men and women surrounded him, eager to feel the flesh of the man who so traitorously stood against the empire and lead an entire people to battle. Marcus caught Bucky’s eye and waved him over, but Bucky just shook his head. He’d had enough of the charade. He strode away from the small alcove to find another cup of wine.


	6. 5

_Steve was born for magic. He knew this as surely as he knew that he’d been born with two hands, two eyes, one heart. Every member of the tribe had a purpose and his was to take over for the elder Shaman when he became one with the earth._

_Steve loved his purpose. He loved every moment of his training. While children worked the fields, learned to cook for the camp, learned to fight and protect their tribe, Steve spent his days in a tent learning to read, to write, to summon colors. His favorites were the purples, yet they were the hardest to find. He basked in their soft glow of empathy and calmness. He walked the trails of mud and stone and practiced letting each hue seep into his skin and through his veins--let his body become one with the color around him and feel the change begin within him._

_He repeated stories, sentences, words, over and over again. He was in charge of maintaining the oral history of his tribe and passing it down to whomever was worthy. It was an incredible burden, and an equally incredible honor. Steve relished this closeness he found with his people._

_The summer he turned nineteen, war came to Kael._

_The color of blood was soon the only hue he saw. He fought or they would die. He learned the sword, the axe, the art of strangling someone without making a sound. The pages of his notebooks lay forgotten, inked sentences scattered through the trees. The color purple faded from memory._

His face was too warm.

Steve groaned, and turned his head, burrow into the blankets, but no matter where he moved, there was still too much light, too much heat. He scrunched his eyes tighter, and tried to force himself back under the current of sleep. Instead, a permeating mumbling nearby wormed its way into his ears.

“Is that really him? No wonder the fucking Kaelish rebellion fizzled.”

“Eh. I heard he still faced down twelve slaves in the arena and won.”

“Hardly. They sent in the rest of the new recruits to help. _He_ passed out halfway through. Barely managed to muster himself to standing. I can’t _wait_ to be paired with that useless sack of shit.”

Steve groaned again, louder this time, and finally cracked one eye open. The blasted window directly above him leaked foul sunlight in a perfect square directly on his pillow. There were also two gladiators sitting on a pallet near him. “Do you mind?”

One of the men stood and crouched down next to Steve.

“Time to get up oh mighty Beast.” The gladiator grinned as he spoke, but his eyes were full of anger. Steve rolled over and ignored him. He heard the other man stand, and closed his eyes again, willing himself into oblivion.

A sharp kick to his kidneys had him gasping for air, and the welt lines on his back pulled--impossibly painful. Steve curled up momentarily, then pushed himself up to standing, fists clenched and shaking in anger.

The two men were laughing now, but watching him carefully.

“Fuck. Off.” Steve’s voice was a low growl, and he walked forward, ready to punch his way out of this blasted room, out of the Ludus, out of Lliad City.

“Oh, calm down.” The man who’d kicked him watched him, contemptuously. “You need to get up, stretch, move around, or those lashes are going to stiffen up until it’s impossible to fight. We’ve another bout in a weeks time and if they decide to chain us in pairs again, no man wants to sully his record because he got stuck with the idiot _Beast of Kael_. It’s noon. Either get up and go eat.” He motioned behind himself. “Or get outside.”

Steve looked past them both. He could make out another room in the shadows separated by a thin cloth. He heard the low grumble of voices from within, and smelled an intoxicating scent of beef and vegetables. He looked to his right, out the window above, and heard the faint sound of footfalls and yelling. Men practicing.

“Pass.” He sat back down gingerly, and pulled the scratchy wool blanket over his legs. Then he rolled back onto his stomach and purposely shut his eyes.

“Bastard.” Steve heard them mutter as they turned and left the room. Steve sighed, and opened his eyes again, looking at the ceiling. The sunlight cast shadows that flickered and danced on the earth walls around him. His stomach growled, but he ignored it just as he ignored the scent of the stew next door.

He should have died. He should have strangled himself on the iron collar as he watched his wife bleed out in front of him back in Kael. If that failed, he should have pushed the soldier harder, tried to escape more, forced them to kill him.

He should have laid down in the arena and let one of the opposing gladiators finish him.

He wouldn’t play their games.

He heard laughter coming from outside and he swallowed thickly. This thing, this _brotherhood_ was a betrayal of their people. He hated the Lliadans, but he hated the gladiators more. Their bodies were not their own, yet they didn’t fight for freedom. They should refuse to battle for entertainment. They should refuse to obey. A sudden rush of longing overcame him as he heard another outburst of laughter. He felt sick. He was desperate for that kinship again. Desperate to fill a void within himself that he’d patched over with anger and hatred.

He was only human.

Steve fisted his hands through his hair and pulled as hard as he could while pushing his face into the shallow pillow. He wanted to scream and break down the walls. He didn’t know how to deal with the things he was feeling, with all the emotion that threatened to take him down. The dam wouldn’t hold.

He sat back up and dug his toes into the soft earth. There was another gladiator nearby, in the corner, that he hadn’t seen earlier. The man was asleep, but his breathing was rattling and wheezing. It sounded wet. Steve noticed a thick wad of cloth wrapped around his torso--saw blood saturating the weave.

It was one of the men from the arena--one of the unlucky men that had been pitted against the new arrivals. Had Steve been the one to inflict that wound? Had Mabakai?

He stood, and steadied his breathing. How was he to lead a people to freedom when they beat and killed each other off every week for sport? How would they ever trust each other? He didn't want this burden. He didn’t want the burden of his own life, let alone the responsibility for these men.

The two slaves who had woken him were right though. If he didn’t start to move and keep his wounds from tightening and festering, he was going to get someone else killed.

He took a few testing steps and winced at the pain, then pulled himself straight and walked forward, through to the kitchen. There were a few other gladiators there, sitting and eating a thick stew. The conversation stopped as he entered, the curtain falling behind him. They watched him, looking vaguely curious but still hostile. Steve didn’t speak, but looked at each man in turn, then smacked his fist against his chest twice--a wisp of memory of his old clan salute. The men turned back to their bowls, ignoring him.

Steve stepped outside.

Bucky walked through the open gates of the Ludus into the vast training grounds. The dirt underneath his feet sprung back, soft and supple. The manse slaves raked, resaturated, and replaced it every couple of days so that it always sparkled--a testament to the General’s prowess and riches. The outer ring was lined with soft-leaved oak trees, that cast a soothing shade upon the edges of the practice grounds. Bucky looked to the middle where that cool shelter didn’t quite reach. Sunlight illuminated the dozens of gladiators stretching and fighting; an unending rehearsal for the stage of the arena.

He smiled to himself. It was an absolutely perfect day. The sun blazed down almost directly overhead and the sky was an incredibly deep blue that he felt he could get lost in. If he were an artist, he’d paint. Instead, he was a fighter, and as most of his own friends were busy sleeping off their intoxication, he’d come seeking the pleasure of sore muscles from the gladiators.

Bucky turned his head to the sound of men to his right, and saw Magnus and Dovagni exit the interior of the building. He smiled as they walked up to him, their left hands held high.

“ _Ave_ , James!”

Bucky raised his own hand in response. “ _Ave_! Well met, men.” He motioned towards the field. “You happen to be up for showing me some more of the _cleachtadh_? I’ve been practicing. I’m still not quite getting the movement from Lann Pose back into Darach Soladach.”

Dovagni nodded his approval and his eyes glittered. “Well spoken! We’ll make a Kael out of you yet.” He stopped short suddenly, remembering who he spoke to, and looked down.

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “If only I could pick up your Gods-forsaken grace in fighting as easily as the accent. I feel like a fool out in our own practice yards moving that slowly, that imperceptibly. But it’s working...it’s actually working. My own movements have been sharpening in sparring matches, and I can already feel my muscles changing underneath skin--adapting to the elegance.”

Dovagni grinned and led them both out to the field and Bucky felt an inward sigh of relief. He was walking such a tight line here between slave and owner. He was so certain that, though at war, the Lliadans had much to learn from their slaves. But befriending the gladiators and learning their skills,battle preparations, even their cooking as they shared meals with him--it felt shameful. It felt as though he kept a doddering friendship always on the verge of catastrophe with these men--a friendship that was paper thin, and always in danger of tearing and exposing the underlying power imbalance.

He enjoyed these easy friendships while he could. But Bucky could never let them overshadow his own loyalty to his people. If it came right down to it, he’d use the knowledge learned from the gladiators in a heartbeat for his own family.

Dovagni picked up two practice blades from a pile near the center of the field and heaved one to Bucky, who caught it easily in one hand. He was already starting to sweat, and could feel his linen tunic sticking to his chest underneath his leather armor. Dovagni began to sing, a grating but rhythmic thing, and Bucky closed his eyes and fell into the movement, letting his thoughts dissipate. He tried to summon a color, but they were fleeting--always just out of grasp.

Dovagni and the others from Kael spoke of this thing, a sort of centering of the body that they made sound like magic. Summon a color and hold it in your mind, let it seep through your veins, your blood. Breath it in and let it engulf you, and you will melt into it, become one with its power. They spoke of ancient druids using greens and browns of nature, and warriors using the crimsons of blood, orange of war.

It was ridiculous to ascribe your success to breathing in color, but Bucky enjoyed the meditative calm that the attempt brought.

The sun continued it’s slow rise over the yards, and bathed them in a steady, heated glow.

The man from the barracks was watching the practice as Steve came up behind him. He turned slightly, and nodded his acknowledgement.

“Ah. So you did decide to grace us with your presence.”

Steve shrugged. “You were right.” He quietly inspected the yards. The men were chaotic, sparring, stretching, running, with no sense of direction. He looked past them and noted with surprise the beautifully kept trees, the scent of fresh soil, the practice equipment that was strewn purposely throughout the yard. “They give their slaves much.”

“You are surprised?” The man was back to watching the mayhem before them. “We are their prize brutes, their champions. We prove their house worth and bring them honor, and in return they make sure we will continue our performance.” He turned suddenly. “ _Ave_ , Mabakai. Welcome.”

Steve watched the familiar face approach. Mabakai looked at home here, like he’d already wormed his way through the ranks of seasoned gladiators in a few days.

“ _Ave_ , Magnus!”

The two clasped hands and Steve scowled. He wanted to hate the man, wanted to despise him his geniality and his willingness to accept. He couldn’t.

Mabakai moved over and clasped Steve’s hand next, then stood between the two men, arms crossed.

“You watching this pitiful showing of our brothers?”

Steve grunted. “Why’d you kill them?”

Mabakai looked down at him. “Excuse me?”

“They were gladiators also. Why would you kill men like us in that arena?”

Magnus was looking at them both now, incredulously. Mabakai spoke slowly, as though addressing a child. “We. Are performing. And some of us will die. This is not some honorable battle to be won with words, and integrity and _ethics_. I was not ready to die. So I killed a man. Or two.”

Steve was trying to contain his anger again. He knew that. He knew if Mabakai hadn’t killed the two opposing gladiators surrounding them in that arena, then he would have been killed. Steve would have been killed. He had to reconcile Mabakai’s will to live with his own will to die, and he wasn’t yet ready to face that shame.

He focused his eyes instead on two men in the center of the field, dancing together in the traditional _cleachtadh_ of his tribe. There must other Kaelish captives here, and his heart warmed for a brief moment in recognition. Then he realized who he was watching.

“Why is that Lliadan here.” He spit the words, body tensing in anger, ready for a fight. Mabakai clapped a thick hand down on his shoulder, barely containing him.

“First of all, _that Lliadan_ is your owner.” Magnus’s voice was just irritating enough to make Steve want to kill him. “Secondly, James isn’t half bad. He’s friendly enough for one of them.”

Maybe Magnus would be the opposing gladiator next time. Steve wouldn’t mind taking him out one bit. He tried to breathe evenly, though his teeth clenched so hard in his jaw that his head was starting to pound. “Who taught him this? It belongs to the Kaels. He has no right to be learning this thing of ours.” Steve pulled forward, but Mabakai still held him back with gripping strength. Steve turned.

“He has no right.” He pulled back and punched Mabakai directly in the face, and felt the crunch of nose underneath his fist. The larger man yelped, and let go of Steve for a moment to press against the sudden flow of blood. Steve stalked across the field and Magnus watched in horror.

Bucky breathed in and the wafting heat from the dirt settled into his limbs. The practice sword balanced perfectly on the tips of his fingers as he stretched arms out. He listened for the cadences of the beats, sung by Dovagni and he inhaled with each rhythmic incantation. He felt a new kind of power start to build, deep within his muscles, but he ignored it. Instead, he let it build up to a soft buzz, and tried to let it seep farther into his core.

The gladiator next to him stopped singing.

Bucky groaned and opened his eyes. The heat from the sun above was punishing in it’s endurance and the practice sword was heavy in his grip. He started to shake, muscles giving out.

“Why’d you stop? I was starting to–”

Someone shoved him hard, and he was thrown off balance. The practice blade clattered uselessly to the ground below, and Bucky shook his head as hefell into battle stance.

The gladiator from the party was standing before him. The Beast. Steve.

He was beautifully golden and vicious as he stood, glaring at Bucky. Dovagni was running towards them now and tried to grab ahold of Steve’s arm, but Steve threw him off easily.

“Stand down. We know each other.”

Dovagni looked confused at Bucky’s words, but he nodded and took a few steps back, still watching intently.

“You have no right to practice the _cleachtadth,”_ Steve hissed. “You are an outsider.” Steve was trembling in anger, barely containing himself. He looked as though he wanted to step forward and shove Bucky again, beat him to the ground.

Bucky cleared his throat. “The punishment for laying a hand on a Lliadan soldier is forty lashes. The punishment for laying a hand on your owner is death.”

“I do not fear death.”

“Clearly not.” Bucky stepped up, into Steve. He was a full head shorter, but it didn’t frighten him. “Though your tongue was talented enough last evening to spare you.” Steve’s jaw clenched and Bucky watched him swallow, watched his tanned chest heave in the sunlight. Bucky shook his head. “You can come up to my rooms later. I’d be willing to discuss the lashings as well.”

Steve spit at him.

Dovagni stepped forward again and Bucky turned to him. “Peace, Dovagni. We are fine. Thank you for working with me this afternoon--I truly appreciate your patience!” He smiled, and Dovagni sighed then turned and jogged back to the building.

Bucky reached up a hand and slowly wiped the spittle off of his face. “I’m not the man you want to fight, Steve.”

“You’re a Lliadan. I’ll kill you all.”

“I am a Lliadan,” Bucky nodded his agreement, “that’s not going to change. But we’re in this together. This doesn’t have to be an arrangement of misery.”

“I’m your slave. There is no fucking arrangement. I’ll play your games, _boy_. I’ll fight for your pathetic wasted country men, and I’ll make you come so hard you see stars if that’s what you’re looking for.” He stepped even closer and bend down, his lips inches from Bucky’s own. “But you leave my culture and my countrymen out of it. The _cleachtadth_ is ours. Not yours. It is not for you to take. You are not worthy.”

Bucky reached up and cupped his hand gently around Steve’s jaw. Then he tightened his grip. “If you _ever_ speak to me this way again, I will have you lashed and crucified in front of the arena. All will look upon you and watch you bleed into the dirt as you shriek for your mother. I am your owner, slave. And you will respect that.” He let go, bent down and picked up the practice blade and shoved it towards Steve. “I expect you in my rooms this evening. Bathe first.”

With that, Bucky turned and walked from the field. He was halfway up the hill to his own practice quarters before he realized his hands were shaking and his cock was half-hard.

Steve threw the wooden blade down in disgust and stalked back to the pathway where Mabakai and Magnus still stood. Mabakai’s arms were crossed in front of his chest and the tattoos that covered his torso and arms seemed brighter, more vivid. There was dried blood plastering his face, and a fresh rivulet still ran from his nose.

Steve tried to walk past, but the warrior reached out and grabbed him forcefully by the arm, spinning him around.

“You. Fool.” His voice was thunderous, and Steve felt his anger stoked, hot again, ready to explode.

“Fuck off, Mabakai.”

“You don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about you anymore. This isn’t about some petty quest for vengeance. You have a chance to unite us all and lead, and you’re going to throw it all away. You’ll get us all killed. You foolish, foolish child.”

Steve wrenched his arm out of Mabakai’s grip and turned again, but Mabakai just reached back out and shoved at him with enough weight that Steve stumbled, cursing.

Steve roared and threw himself forward.

Mabakai didn’t hold anything back. His arms were just as powerful as they looked, and Steve spent only twenty seconds blocking punches before he realized he was going to have to use the advantage of his smaller stature to get within radius of that powerful swing. He let one fist take him in the ribs and swallowed in pain, but threw himself quickly to the left and underneath Mabakai’s left shoulder. He wrapped one arm around Mabakai’s neck and threw his leg over the man’s back, pulling himself and riding him like a stallion. Mabakai screamed in anger and tried to shake him off, but Steve held tightly. He pummeled at Mabakai’s face and arms with one fist, until Mabakai threw himself back, propelling them both to the ground. Steve tried to throw himself clear, but Mabakai still landed on top, and all the air rushed from Steve’s lungs. He found himself scrabbling at Mabakai’s, neck, trying to get the man to move, but he couldn’t seem get enough purchase. His lash wounds were rubbing in the dirt and burning, but Steve ignored it, and finally wiggled free. Mabakai came to his knees and they were on top of one another again, rolling through the dirt, punching and kicking with all their strength.

Steve got a boot to the kidneys and gasped out, but got a punch in to Mabakai’s face. The other man’s nose started to gush red again, and Steve used the distraction to jump forward and grab one of the wooden practice blades off the ground. Mabakai threw himself forward once more and Steve barely danced out of the way in time. They backed up for a moment, circling each other and looking for weaknesses. Mabakai lunged and landed a solid punch on Steve’s shoulder and it burned and tightened up instantaneously. Steve lashed out with the blade and tapped Mabakai on the shin, and the man growled in annoyance.

They seemed evenly matched, and now matter what Steve did he couldn’t seem to get the upper hand. He could see the other gladiators from the corner of his vision. They had all stopped their own monotonous activities, and were approaching the pair to watch.

Steve moved forward again, lashing out, but Mabakai deflected the blade with his palm, a trick that would never work on metal. Steve danced in and out of reach, taking punches left and right, but landing blows up and down Mabakai’s torso. On the last--a blunt blow to the kneecap, Mabakai tripped and stumbled down. Steve took the change and hurled forward once again and landed on top of Mabakai, then brought the blade up and held it to Mabakai’s throat.

“You son of a whore.” Steve was heaving giant gulps of air, his lungs working in overdrive trying to recover from Mabakai landing on top of him. “Don’t you fucking tell me what to do.”

Mabakai tried to brush the sword away, but Steve held it steady. “Don’t you dare.”

Mabakai started to laugh, a great wheezing thing. Tears ran down his face, as he spoke. “Good fight, Steve. Good fight.”

A bubble of blood burst from his nose and Steve felt the futility of it all, the ridiculousness. He sagged, then shrugged off Mabakai’s chest and dropped the sword. He lay back on the warm dirt. His breathing gave him away first, a halting, gasping thing. Mabakai looked over, and then Steve was laughing too.

They lay like that, side by side and arms touching. The sun beat down and the other gladiators circled the pair, looking down in confusion as Steve and Mabakai gulped in air and let the inane laughter run it’s course.

“You can actually fight.”

Steve looked up, shielding his eyes from the sunlight, and tried to identify the speaker.

“You call that a fight?”

One of the gladiators shrugged his shoulders. “You were fairly pitiful in the arena. We’d all heard so much about you. Seemed a bit of a disappointment, really. But you were actually trying just now.”

Steve closed his eyes again. “I can fight. Better when I’m not worried about my insides spilling out my skin in front of thousands of my enemy.” He grunted, then pushed himself up and offered a hand to Mabakai. Mabakai took it, and Steve pulled him to his feet as well.

“Speaking of disappointing fighters...” The men watched him and Steve chose his next words carefully. “I’ve heard we have another bout in a few days. If we actually train as a unit, we might stand a chance at giving a good show.” He snuck a look at Mabakai who nodded in encouragement. “And if there’s one thing we owe the Lliadans...it’s a good show.”

The men nodded their agreement. Steve tapped his fist to his chest twice--trying again. Mabakai followed suit and Steve allowed himself a small smile. It passed like a wave through the men, this understanding of brotherhood, of agency. The men stood straight, formed fists and tapped twice against their chests. For the slaves. For the gladiators.

For Kael.


	7. 6

The hallways were cold and sterile. The white marble reflected sunlight from the windows throughout the keep, but the shadows that played against the walls were hardened beasts.

Steve followed the serving woman who’d been sent to fetch him. He was still learning his way about the ludus and the grounds, but even now as he hurried through the hollow walkways, he was busy memorizing every feature. The slave came to a sudden stop in front of him and he almost tripped over her. She glared at him, and huffed under her breath.

“Wait here.”

She knocked twice against an intricately carved wooden door, and listened intently. Then she nodded to herself and pushed against the wood, disappearing inside.

Steve stood for a moment, arms behind his back, then let his curiosity get the better of him. He moved forward and planted himself against the frame, listening, but could only hear mumbles. He inched even further towards the opening, and peeked around the corner.

A fire blazed in the hearth. James was seated in front of a large mirror, close to the roaring warmth. He’d removed the leather practice garb from earlier in the field and was naked from the waist up. Steve watched as Bucky rubbed at his shoulder, his left arm extended around his body.

Long, white, ropey scar tissue extended from the top of his shoulder blade and down his back to mid abdomen. Steve hadn’t noticed it last night, but then again, James never once stood from the pillows while Steve was with him--he’d never had the opportunity to see him from the backside. Steve pushed his head forward, just a bit farther, trying to get a better look.

The serving woman flung open the door and he pitched forward, barely catching himself. Her eyes narrowed.

“This one doesn’t follow orders, James.” She watched him with a practiced focus, though her voice carried and filled the room behind her.

“Believe me, I’m aware. Thank you, Antonia.”

James didn’t turn, though he looked up slightly and watched Steve in the mirror. Steve straightened and ignored Antonia as she brushed by him, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“Come forward.”

“I’d rather not.”

James turned at that, and Steve watched the flicker of flames reflect back to him from blue eyes.

“Do you not get tired of this constant worrying of the bit? Come forward. Save the stubbornness for something useful.”

Steve wanted to resist, but the boy was right. Mabakai was right. There were a million battles to fight and he was standing here like an idiot, pressing his luck once again for no reason. He walked forward to the bench and mirror and settled on James’s left side as James turned back around. They watched each other silently through the mirror for a moment, then James looked back down and took up massaging his shoulder once again.

“I’ve seen slaves killed for far less than your impertinence.”

Steve shuffled a moment, uncomfortable at their close proximity, then smiled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m no lowly slave, master. I’m a gladiator. Don’t you value me above the rest?”

James stood and slapped him across the face. Steve blinked, and the blood rushed hot to his face.

“It’s that. Right there. You have to control your tongue. I don’t care what you think of your new _position_ , but quite frankly, you are one of the lucky ones. Yes, you are a gladiator. Yes, you will fight for us, and entertain us.”

“You,” Steve interjected.

“Yes. Me.” James swallowed, then went on. “You will entertain me and whoever else sees to use you in that way. And the Lliadan Empire will feed you and clothe you and house you. You lost, Steve. You were captured, and we own you now. Are you going to throw away the rest of the life you’ve been gifted because of your stupid pride?”

“You have _no_ idea of what you speak, you little, arrogant bastard. Your precious Lliadan ideals and values are nothing but a false code written to inspire boys into servitude to a corrupt and barbaric Empire. You have no idea what war is like, what your people have done. You sit in your boxes and drink your wine while watching men _kill each other_ as a piece of performance art and you think you’ve earned the right to lecture me?”

James stared at him, silent, so Steve continued on. “Your people burn my country to the ground as we speak, slaughtering millions of innocents in your quest for dominance of all the land. You have no idea. You have no idea.” He sputtered to a halt, chest heaving. A vision of his wife, crawling to him through blood and dirt played over and over and he shook his head, trying to dislodge it.

“You are the leader of the Kael Rebellion, the Beast, the hero they all follow, yes?”

Steve could hear his own breathing, loud in his ears. James spoke so softly, so calmly.

“That is what they called me. Yes.”

“And did you lead, then, at the Battle for Eldrak’s Arm?”

Steve watched his eyes. There was a quiet intelligence there, and a softness--not of an untried boy, but of someone who’d seen too much.

“I was not at the Arm. Those were not my people. They were barbarians.”

“But still Kaeldish rebels, no?”

Steve paused, caught. Eldrak’s Arm was at the Eastern most corner of the Kaeldish province, and was the site of a horrific massacre where small group of rebels took out an entire Lliadan legion. That alone should have been cause for celebration amongst the clansmen, but the tactics used by the rebel fighters were horrendously brutal and barbaric. Steve had led the warriors of his tribe into war originally because they held the moral high ground. He’d become the so-called leader of the rebellion when his own stratagem proved consistently successful while his honor never wavered. He’d struggled to continue on after news of The Arm.

Steve shuffled from one foot to another, then grunted. “They were Kaeldish.”

“And should I ascribe to you the beliefs and values of those Kaeldish men?”

“I understand your point, master.” Steve looked down, and bit his lip, fury growing strong in his belly.

James nodded, then sat back on the bench. “Please don’t call me master. It makes me feel like my father. Something I don’t particularly relish.” The mirror caught his smile as it danced across his face like a flicker of sunlight.

“Where’d you get that sword wound?”

The smile disappeared, and he rolled his shoulders back a few times, then cracked his neck from side to side. “Clearly not from sitting in my box, drinking fine wine and watching performance art, Steve.”

Steve clenched his teeth, but held his tongue for a moment as James turned back around facing him again. James leaned forward, casually resting his elbows on his knees. The sun was setting now and the fire from the hearth sent shadows flickering across his bare chest. He was smaller than Steve, yes, and leaner, but his arms and torso were still muscular. He looked less like a warrior, and more like an archer, or a dancer--like someone who repeated the same motions time after time after time until each tendon, muscle, ligament was perfectly sculpted for one specific purpose. His hair fell loose, slightly damp as though he’d just washed and Steve fought the urge to reach out and brush a stray curl from his cheek.

The flicker of emotion was intense--deep within his belly. It was too much. Steve crossed his arms and pushed forward, breaking the silence. “Where’d you get that sword wound, _boy_?” His voice sounded harsh in his ears, gritty, like speaking through a mouthful of sand.

“You are not the only one who’s been on the front lines of a barbaric war.”

Steve felt too warm. The fury came in waves and retreated, leaving a hunger for companionship in its place. It confused him, left him feeling dazed and unsure. Without thinking any more, Steve reached forward and took James’s left arm in his hands and looked down. “If you move like this–” he circled the arm up over James’s head and back down, continuous motion. Then he dropped it just as suddenly, summoned red and heat and blew into his hands, then placed them over the scarred tissue. James opened his mouth in surprise, then exhaled, a long ‘oh….”

They stayed like that a moment, Steve concentrating and pushing his mass, his heat into that one spot. Then he let go, and James sighed.

“That spot, it’s been driving me insane. What did you do?”

“The pulling, right? That’s what’s causing you pain? It’s from all of the repetitive motion, like our _cleachtadth_. The constant movement exacerbates the nerve damage, pulls at all the scar tissue. It’s good for you though. If you keep it up, you’ll wear into it. You just need to be able to release the tightness afterwards.”

James reached his arm out, then carefully stretched. “It’s incredible. It feels looser than it has in years!”

Steve nodded. “There’s more to Kaeldish battle training than what you’ve picked up in the gladiator camps.”

“Oh, so as long as you aren’t parading around in front of your men, it’s perfectly acceptable for a Lliadan to learn your secrets.”

“Watch it, boy.”

James rolled his eyes. “New rules. Don’t call me master. And don’t call me boy. Or I’ll have you whipped.”

Steve flexed, then flinched as barely healed lashes started to pull. “So I should call you what? Arrogant bastard?”

James laughed and Steve felt something drop in his stomach. _I’m playing your fucking game, Mabakai,_ he reminded himself, but it felt false, off somehow. The laughter was real. And the emotions that churned within his gut were just as genuine.

“Most of my friends don’t call me James, you realize. The gladiators don’t anymore either.” He stopped and flinched as his shoulder popped audibly. Steve sat down next to him.

“Give me your arm again.”

Steve inhaled, letting the heat from his blood pool to the center of his hands. He reached out and worked his fingers across the scar tissue once again, and James sighed in relief.

“They call me Bucky. You may as well, also.”

Bucky stayed seated on the bench, watching himself in the mirror long after Steve left.. A cool breeze wafted through the room, sending goose pimples up and down his bare flesh though the fire was hot at his back.

He reached out and ran his fingers through the tangles of his hair--long as was the style for Lliadan high class, but far grown past any sort of military regulation. He barely felt any pull in his left shoulder at all. The slave’s fingers were magic. Steve’s fingers were magic. He done _it_ \--that summoning of raw power that the Kaelish clansmen all spoke of and revered. Calling a color to mind and absorbing its energy. Bucky had felt the heat from Steve’s body enter his own and dissolve the tightness in his skin, absorb the tightness of the scar tissue pulling too tight over muscle. He closed his eyes and remembered, briefly, another clan chieftain from long ago.

_Summoning fire._

_Burning._

_Flesh._

Bucky shook his head and stood abruptly, moving over to the garderobe in the corner and pulling out a fresh tunic. Antonia entered as he dressed.

“The meeting has already started, my Lord.”

“I’m coming.”

“It’s a large assembly this time. The other houses are beginning to worry. The capture of The Beast has only stoked the flames.”

Bucky studied Antonia, took in her deeply tanned skin, the olive gauze that clung to every curve of her body. She stood tall and poised as the breeze whispered against her dark hair. Her eyes were full of a bright intelligence, and he didn’t regret for one moment the fates that brought her to him as his room slave. She had proven not only skilled at caring for his pleasure, but also had a mind for court intrigue that he envied. “Thank you. Truly.”

She nodded and stepped up to him--close enough for him to smell the light scent of the crushed lilacs she dabbed behind each ear. She frowned a moment and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “You look like they do. Like the other young lords.”

“I _am_ a young lord.”

“No. I think not.” She pursed her lips, then rose on the balls of her feet and kissed him deeply. It sent shivers down his spine before she pulled away. “You can be so much more.”

Bucky pulled away. “I’ll send for you when I’m finished. Wear nothing.” He turned and walked out of his rooms, hearing her voice echo behind him.

“Yes, my Lord.”

The assembly hall was situated in the exact middle of the Barnes Manse. It was built around an enormous depression and a unique rock formation that jutted from the carefully laid smooth marble flooring.Three large pieces of perfectly symmetric granite rose from the earth at the center of this stage, and joined in the middle, creating an enormous podium that was exquisitely dramatic. The stage was surrounded on all sides by tiered stone benches that rose in levels through an entire floor.

Bucky entered at the back of the hall as quietly as he was able and moved slowly down the steps towards the center. His father was standing at the podium speaking, but he looked up as Bucky entered and caught his eye, nodding his approval. Bucky nodded back, then found an empty row and settled onto a cold, hard bench.

His father was speaking about the enemy’s most recent attack on a small city just twenty leagues outside of Lliad. The barbarians were getting closer, and in getting closer they were becoming far bolder. The capture and subsequent enslaving of their leader should have broken them. That is what his father’s engagement deep into Kael territory was supposed to initiate. Instead, it seemed to have caused the opposite. The Kaelish clans that had begun to band together under leadership of the Beast were now actively seeking one another out and working together in ways the Lliadan Empire had never seen before. Once, they were a nomadic culture, deep in conflict with one another. Now, they had set aside differences to focus on one main threat. It made the expansion and bridging of Lliadan territory near impossible with the constant threat of Kaelish militia activity.

And with the capture of their leader, they had stirred the hive.

Another argument started. The heads of other prominent Lliadan houses were blaming Lucius for the sudden uptick in clansmen activity so close to home and were demanding he give over leadership of the Lliadan legions. Bucky tried to pay attention, but these sorts of arguments happened near weekly and he had no patience for the petty demands of fellow countrymen who had no idea what it took to fight on the front lines of a single battle, let alone plan an entire war. His eyes wandered, and he saw men of other houses sitting and watching the melee just as he was--men who also were waiting, pondering, thinking before jumping in.

A breath on his neck shocked him out of his reverie and he looked up to see Aliathra nudging in next to him. Bucky sighed. He had no patience for her games tonight.

“Liat.” He spoke curtly.

“Good evening, Commander.”

Her smile was a tennous, spiteful thing. He ignored her, and turned back to his father--tried to follow the basic arguments being made below.

She reached out and placed her hand on his left thigh, her perfectly manicured nails scratching deep into the cloth. “I must admit, I’m a bit surprised to see you here this evening, given the state I saw you in last,” she said as her smile grew and her hand moved up his thigh. “I thought these silly matters of the Empire to be quite beneath someone like you.”

Bucky reached down and plucked her hand off his leg, still not glancing in her direction. “Someone like me? Get to your point, Liat.”

She moved closer still. “I’d think these meetings would just fan the flame. Make you itch. To get in front of a legion again and fight for your country.”

He looked at her now and spoke calmly though his shoulder blades itched as though someone were watching and his pulse was quickening. “I will lead this country into our new era from behind the Barnes podium. I’ve served my time on the battlefield.”

“True. I’d just think you’d want another chance. Maybe this time you could ride into the sunset, waving your flag and glowing with glory.”

He watched her face, and her eyebrows raised in mock appreciation for the attention she’d gained at her syrupy words.

“Maybe this next time you could keep your fellow countrymen alive. Commander.”

Bucky stood abruptly. “Lovely to chat as always. Give my regards to your father.”

He moved down the aisle leaving Liat behind in the benches above. As he drew closer, his father motioned to him and cut off the man speaking.

“James! Fellow men of Lliad, as you know, my son James will be leading this house in my stead when I take command of the armies once again. Perhaps a unifying word to the steady leadership of Lliad, son?”

The men quieted once again, full of bark as always, but unprepared to bite the first general of their armies. Bucky stepped up to the podium. Marcus was sitting there with his father in the front row, and next to them was Bucky’s mother. The city deferred almost entirely to the First General Lucius Barnes, but few realized that the one pulling his strings was his wife, Messalina. She sat, idly knitting and mending garments--a task usually reserved for the servants, but one she always insisted upon performing herself. Every now and again, she looked up--scanning the benches across from her with eyes hooded and intelligent, then went back to the needles. A soft click, clack, could be heard, echoing throughout the chamber as Bucky stood in silence.

She was a very, very dangerous woman.

“Greetings, Houses of Lliad,” He motioned towards his father who stood just behind him, “Like my father said, I will be leading House Barnes in the coming months as my father roots out the barbarous clansmen from our very borders.”

The stillness in the chamber was deafening. They would accept him as the head of the Barnes House only as far as being figure-head for his father. They still remembered. It would be near impossible to forget.

Marcus tapped two fingers against his right wrist and smiled--their boyhood code for friendship. Bucky smiled back, thankful for the blossoming warmth from that small gesture. “I look forward to working with and learning from each and every one of you. For now, I’d like to propose a way we might endeavor to further our education together.”

His mother looked up at that--her needles suddenly silent.

“I’d like to ask that we consider breaching the gap between the upper class and its servants. Begin speaking to one another.” A murmur began from the men in front and passed quickly around the benches. Bucky saw Liat stand suddenly from the back of the auditorium and walk out. He swallowed thickly. “We can learn from one another. We are not so different, and there are ways to bridge the cultural divide that may well help us win this war.”

The murmur grew louder, and a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Thank you, James. I think what my son is trying to say–”

“Your coward son got an entire legion of Lliadan soldiers massacred and now he’s suggesting we work with the enemy?”

Bucky flinched. With that one spoken thought, a dozen more surfaced. The men were angry now and voices filled the chamber. His father tried to get a word in, but they kept cutting him off, silencing him.

“Your son should have died like a man, with the rest of our soldiers. Not come crawling back, a traitor to his people.”

“He speaks so highly of our slaves now. Has he been working with them from the start?”

The hand on his shoulder clenched down even tighter, and his father tried to steer him from the stage.

“House Barnes steps dangerously close to treachery with every word spoken–”

_“House Barnes has a heritage that dates back to the founding of this city.”_

His mother’s voice was quiet but powerful. She stood now, and the fiery arguments diminished to a quiet rumble as the other men took their seats once again. “I charge you all to be very careful with your claims of treachery and deceit. My husband has led this empire to victory against Eskua and all of the Abrelkan Territories. Lliada has control of the entire seaboard thanks to his exploits and conquests. Kael will be no different.”

Bucky let his father lead him down from the stage and through the back hallway as his mother spoke. Her voice echoed and then faded as they left the chambers. Lucius had not yet released his hand from Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m coming with you. You can release me at any time. I’m not some lost pup to be guided back to the bitch.”

His father shoved and Bucky pitched forward, barely catching himself against the stone wall.

“You idiot. You asinine fucking idiot.” Lucius fought for words, his cheeks red and his eyes furious. Bucky stood his ground. It was always better to let his father shout out his anger before attempting to reason with him. “I leave for the front in two months. Two months of near constant preparations for our armies, strategies to work through with our war officers, paperwork to finish, an entire blasted country to run. And I’m leaving you. You! In charge. And you start your term with a decree to make friendly with the enemy? With our slaves?”

Lucius stalked circles around Bucky, his hands carding through his dark hair--cut close to his head like a proper military officer.

“Damn it, James.” He stopped in front of Bucky--reached out and placed the palm of his hand softly against Bucky’s cheek. “You can _do_ this. You can lead them all. Why can’t you just accept that your place is no longer at the front of an army but is instead here, at home, at the front of your country?”

“I’ve accepted it, father.” The hall was quiet again, save for Lucius’s harsh breathing. “I know what I need to do for our family. For Lliada.”

His father threw up his hands and went back to pacing. “Learn from the slaves? Learn from the gladiators? They’re right you know! The Houses are right. It’s borderline treason! James...Bucky.” he paused and pressed a hand against his forehead, exasperated. Bucky watched him and realized how old he was starting to look. How tired. “Bucky.” A smile crept over his face, but it looked as grey as Bucky felt. “Do you remember, me calling for you up and down the halls? You would run the corridors, padding on little bare feet, and I would call, Bucky? Bucky? And we would find you. We would always find you because you always hid in plain sight–”

“I’m sorry. It was too soon. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You still wear your heart on your sleeve, boy. I’d do anything for you, your brothers, your mother. But your country calls. You need to be stronger. You know what they see you as. Fight it. Enough of this talk of uniting with the enemy. We ride to war and Kael will burn like so many before it.”

Lucius turned to walk back to the chambers and Bucky tried to follow. His father held up a hand and stopped him. “Go back to your quarters. Use your slave and forget her name. Your mother and I will cover for you in there.” He motioned towards the doors to the chambers. “And next time, you will speak as a leader and not as a foolish child.”

“Yes, father.”

Lucius nodded once, then pushed back into the chambers, regal and poised as any king.

Bucky’s shoulders dropped. He thought for a moment longer, then pressed his mouth tight and walked back up the corridor. A young slave outside the doors jumped to attention as he passed. He looked familiar, like another child from long ago.

Bucky shivered.

“My Lord, is there anything you needed?”

“Fetch Antonia. Tell her I want her in my chambers now. If she isn’t there waiting for me by the time I arrive, I’ll have you both whipped in the yards.”

His voice was hard and commanding--a tone perfected with years of practice. The boy yelped and went running as fast as he could.


	8. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ********Chapter 7 Warnings** ** ** **
> 
> Dubious Consentual Situation (no sex)

The practice blades hit together in mid-air with a loud whump.

Mabakai held up his hand and his opponent paused as he bent to adjust a lacing on his sandal and then wiped the dripping sweat from his eyes, shielding his eyes from the midday sun for a glorious moment. Epacus looked at him, his sword still at the ready. Around them, gladiators swung at each other and moved through their own calisthenics.

“Go again?”

Mabakai nodded. “At the ready.” His knees bent and they circled each other once again. Epacus was young--well muscled, but still a lanky child. He was one of the newer arrivals, and it showed. He flung his sword towards Mabakai without thought or concern for his attack, his blonde hair glinting in the sunlight. The Lliadans would find him beautiful to look at.

They’d find him beautiful to murder in the arena.

“No. Again.” Mabakai dropped back and they circled once more. Epacus struck out, once again leaving his entire right side open to attack. Mabakai easily knocked the blade away and jumped backwards. “Again.”

“This is unreasonable, Mabakai. I’m not training to become a knight.”

Mabakai flung his sword to the side and stalked forward. “No, you are no knight. You are a _gladiator_. You are a warrior for Kael. You must always be more or you will be dead.” He stopped just in front of Epacus who still had his practice blade held out. “Attack me.”

“You are unarmed.”

“Attack me.”

Epacus watched him for a moment, then fell back into _fanacht_ pose--the meditative waiting stance of the _cleadacht_. He circled Mabakai slowly, and pulled his sword closer to his chest.

“Good,” Mabakai murmured as he turned, watching the boy eye him with the gaze of a predator. “Good!”

Mabakai watched his chest. He knew exactly when the boy was about to strike as his breaths quickened. The blade flashed out and he parried with a bare hand, sending it off to the side and almost out of Epacus’s grasp. The boy growled and pulled it back in, measuring the distance between himself and the larger warrior with quick, intelligent eyes.

Quicker than Mabakai anticipated from one so untried, he struck once more. Instead of waiting for the hit, Epacus followed the force of the swing and rolled forward, surprising Mabakai. He sprung up quickly on Mabakai’s backside.

The practice blade took Mabakai squarely in the ribs and he toppled.

“Gods! That was well done.” Mabakai lay, his back stretched out against the warm sand. He could hear a stiff laughter to one side and he tipped his head, groaning at the pain in his side.

Steve stood there, watching him.“You deserved that blow.”

Mabakai sighed, and looked back to the sky. “Agreed. Point, Epacus.”

The boy stepped up, blocking the sunlight and Mabakai stared up into his eyes. “I’m a warrior. Just like you. Your condescension rubs.”

“Child, you have no idea what a hornet’s nest they will throw you to. You need to learn to fight without giving away every move or you will be killed. While thousands of Lliadans cheer and taunt, you will inch forward holding your guts in and crying for your mother. You must be better.”

“Slightly over-dramatic for one laying on the ground with bruised ribs from my bite.”

He was a cocky shit. They were all cocky shits. This job, this attempt at revolution was too big for them. Mabakai closed his eyes and felt the boy walk away. The sun beat down and he felt the sand underneath, gritty, hard against chapped skin.

“Hey.”

There were hands on his arms and Mabakai let Steve pull him up to sitting.

“Don’t give up on them yet.”

“I’ve spent the last two weeks desperately trying to get you to lead these men,” Mabakai cracked a grin, “and now you’re lecturing me?”

“This thing you’re trying? It’s impossible.” Steve spoke harshly, somberly.

“Some pep talk.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t essential.”

Mabakai raised his arms, letting his shoulders pop above his head. “And your suggestions? Preferably delivered in a slightly less fatalistic manner?”

Steve shrugged and sank down to his haunches. “I don’t know. I can’t see any way around it. They will keep putting us against one another in the arena and any way you look, eventually some of us will die. And then they will replenish our crew with new slaves, new recruits--angry, embittered, raw. And we will start over again. And then they will die. And only if we are very lucky, will we continue to live to see this cycle happen.” Steve traced at the dirt with his pointer finger. “That is...if you can call it luck.”

Mabakai looked past Steve, to where a Lliadan guard stood, chatting with a messenger. Every now and again the guard looked over to the pair and scowled. Mabakai grabbed his ribs with his hands and doubled over, pretending to be in more pain than he felt. “It is not just the slaves and the gladiators. We have inside help.”

Steve jerked towards him--studied his face. “Help? Lliadan?”

“Move towards me, pretend you are testing my ribs for a break.” Steve looked at him, confused, and Mabakai nearly growled in frustration. “The guard is watching us you idiot.”

Steve nodded in mute understanding and reached out, guiding his hands gently along Mabakai’s side.

“There is a woman, near the head of a high family, who has been helping organize the house slaves.”

“Who?”

Mabakai resisted the urge to spit on the fool man. “That is not information that I need to know. Just know that it is not only us. There are others. Lliadans who want to build a resistance.”

“I don’t trust it.” Steve still brushed fingers gently across Mabakai’s inky black skin, but his eyes were closed again, stubborn and mulish.

“Just inspire the men. Give them a reason to live, and a reason not to kill each other in the arena. Speak of Kael. Speak of earth and tree and river, and hidden magics. Make them remember where they came from. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“We fight again in four days, Mabakai.”

“I know.”

Steve stood, falling into slave posture, and Mabakai looked up to see the guard walking over briskly. He got to his knees, then gingerly got up, putting on as much of a show as he dared.

“Afternoon, my Lord. Took a hit directly to the ribs there. Steve was helping–”

“Silence, gladiator.”

The guard glared at him and Mabakai quieted.

“Beast of Kael, is it?” The Lliadan was watching Steve now, looking him up and down.

“Sir.”

The cudgel at the guard’s belt whipped out and struck Steve on the shoulder. Steve yelped, holding his arm tightly against his body, but he stayed standing.

“Slaves answer with ‘My Lord.’ Address your betters with respect.”

“Yes. My Lord.”

Mabakai chanced a look at Steve. He could see the fire dancing on the pools of his blue eyes.

“Better. The General Lucius Barnes has requested that you attend him in his chambers.”

Steve’s face fell, though his eyes continued to burn.

“Allow me to dress properly first, my Lord.”

“At once means now.” The guard smirked, but nodded his head towards the old building on the grounds. “Hurry.” Steve bowed his head in obeisance. “And you.” He gestured towards Mabakai. “Get back to training.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Mabakai jogged off to join a group of gladiators who were running laps around the field. He made it twice around the field, keeping pace with Dovagni and Magnus at the head of the herd, before he saw Steve jog over to the messenger. He had pulled on a light colored tunic, though his hair was still damp from sweat and unkempt from training. Mabakai watched them begin the walk up the hill to the manor.

The sun ducked behind a group of clouds.

Steve stood awkwardly, hands clasped tightly behind his back and head bowed down. He fought to control his breathing and not look up. If he looked up, if he saw the general’s eyes, he wasn’t sure he could contain his rage.

The bed slave finally finished and stood, wiping at his mouth. He waited there for a signal while Lucius readjusted his robes.

“You may go, Parasmus.”

Parasmus nodded, then turned and brushed past Steve, not looking up, not looking anywhere but the stone floor.

“You’ve adapted well.” The General’s voice filled the large room as he stood and paced around Steve, looking him up and down as though he were a prized stallion.

Steve ignored the statement. He refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. He cycled through faces and names of the gladiators--men who he’d just met mere days ago, but who he’d sworn to protect. Mabakai, Dovagni, Epacus, Raechellus--the older man who was from a village just outside of Steve’s own. Magnus, Ientius with the long scar down his face–

“Strip.”

Steve shucked off his tunic and deftly worked the knots of his breechcloth, letting it fall to the floor. He watched a beetle on the stone floor--watched it feel out for a moment before it crossed the cavernous grouting to reach the next tile.

The general stopped in front of Steve, stepping on the insect.

“You bear the marks of the lash well. They are already fading into skin.”

Steve grunted. “The healing ointment they give us works.”

Lucius reached out and grabbed Steve’s chin between his fingers, forcing him to look up. “My Lord.”

“The healing ointment they give us works. My...Lord.”

“Better.” He dropped his hand and Steve went back to studying the stone.

“How did you enjoy my son?”

Steve felt a shiver of something run down his spine, something unspoken and ominus. He shifted his weight and bit his lip, unsure of how to answer.

“I suppose I should be asking him how he enjoyed you. I’ve no use for slaves who can’t fulfil the duties required of them.”

Lucius picked up the pacing again and Steve tried not to watch him, tried to breath normally and not let him know how uncomfortable he was, naked and exposed.

“We enjoyed each other. My Lord.”

“Mm. Good.” Lucius sat down at a large desk in against the wall with his back to Steve. He began to write something, while Steve stood, unsure of what was expected of him.

“You inspired quite an uprising of your people, Beast.”

“I do what I can.”

Lucius turned sharply, watched Steve’s eyes. Steve looked down again, in conciliatory fashion, and Lucius went back to scrawling on the page.

“I see what you are doing. Down in the practice yards. Trying to bring the men together, motivate and amalgamate, ignite another revolution.”

Steve continued to watch the floor. “Begging your pardon, _my lord_ , but I’ve not been here a week. I hardly think I’m founding a mutiny.”

“Something a rebel ingrate would claim, no doubt.” Lucius fell silent for a moment, finishing his scrawling, then folded the page deftly and heated wax, sealing it with his ring. He turned once again. “Regardless. You need some further task to keep that budding mind occupied.” Lucius handed the note to Steve. “I want you to keep an eye on my son.”

“You want a gladiator to spy on your son.”

Lucius smiled at him now, and Steve could see the snake-like intelligence reflected in those eyes. There was something more going on here, but he needed to be patient and tease out the details.

“You certainly got on well enough with him the other evening.”

“You want me to lay with him? To be his bed slave? Surely you can find someone...better suited to the task than a simple gladiator. A _barbarian_.” Steve let the bitterness through then, coloring his words and changing them to shifting, malicious things.

“I’m sorry, Steve, but you seem to be under some misconceptions of what _exactly_ you are to me. If I order you to fight, you will fight. If I order you to kill, you will kill. If I order you to bend over right now, you will bend and moan in pleasure while I fuck you. I. Own. You.”

The words hit Steve and he felt the heat rise to his face, the familiar ringing in his ears that came with the urge to fight, to war, to win. Instead, he clenched his jaw, forced out the words.

“Yes. My lord.”

“Good.” Lucius stood once more. “Get dressed. Parasmus will be waiting outside my quarters and will take you to James’s rooms. You can deliver that note to him for me while you are there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Steve fumbled with his tunic in fury; hot waves of anger washing over him. He yanked the clothing on, secured his belt, turned and left the rooms. The General’s stare followed him long past the doors closing.

Bucky stood in the gardens, watching a lone butterfly float from flower to flower. His mother walked just ahead of him, stopping every now and again to bend and sniff at the blooms.

“Your disregard for this family is causing problems.”

“I have no disregard for family. I’m merely attempting to point out fallacies and cracks in Lliadan logic. The entire foundation of our society is built on old and crumbling ideas of hierarchical tyranny. We can do better. We have to be better. We need to lead that–”

Messalina slapped him across the face. The sting took his breath away.

“Do you have any idea what I have sacrificed for you? For this family? For Lliad? You ungrateful little…”

She took a deep breath and turned back to the flowers. “The hespas are blooming beautifully this year.”

Bucky blinked away the sting of her hand and focused on the crimson red blooms. The Hespa flower was cultivated in Lliad City. It bloomed a dark blood crimson during the daytime, but as the sun set the petals dropped revealing a tiny white star bloom. It was tradition to throw them towards a favored gladiator during a match. Bucky always thought they looked savagely graceful--atop the blood covered sand.

“I want to fight.” He whispered it--the breeze from his words causing the slightest tremor on the nearest petal.

“You will do no such thing.”

“I was born to fight, not born to sit and play politics. At least let me continue to lead a small group of men from here. Father has always maintained the head of house role as well as being a leading General–”

“You are not your father.”

Messalina walked forward to the next row of bushes,not even sparing a glance back.

“I know, but you need to at least give me a chance. I was born to lead men in battle, not to sit at a desk doing paperwork, or speak to the heads of houses from all the countryside. I rose through the ranks to become Commander before my twentieth year. You know I’m qualified to fight.”

“I know you’re qualified to lead men to their deaths.”

Bucky stopped, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. A wave of nausea overtook him, and he tried to gather his thoughts. They felt scattered, far away, like feathers drifting on the wind. He’d heard it all before from the other houses, from other Lliadan royals, from even the townsfolk in passing. He saw the way they looked down when he passed, shied away. He ignored it--didn’t let it get to him.

From his own mother? That felt like being flayed alive.

“I understand.” He stood quietly, watching the hespas dance in the breeze.

“Oh, James.” His mother turned and embraced him--sudden and unexpected. That was Messalina. Her moods where like whims and fancies, quick to turn. Quick to wound. “I know it wasn’t your fault. But I won’t put you through that again. I won’t put this family through that again. You are too important. Lliad will prove victorious once more in this conflict with the clansmen savages, and the Barnes family will continue to rise. We move in a continual upward spiral and I will not see us fall.”

“Yes, Mother.” He bent his head against her neck--could smell her perfume. She was a tall woman, exotic and terrifyingly beautiful.

“I will help you, James. I will tell you what to do. You’ll learn how to lead from a desk, with more success than ever from the back of a horse.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes and let her words wrap around him, soothe him. He didn’t speak aloud the thoughts plaguing him. _Pawn. Puppet._

Messalina pushed him away. “If you see my room slave on your way back to the manor, please send her here. I wish to gather some of these blooms for my bedside table.”

It was as definitive an excusal as he was likely to get. “Of course, mother.” He nodded at her, then walked briskly from the warmth of the gardens, back to the cold sprawl of the house. He traversed stone walkways, passed servants and slaves busily preparing for the nights feasts before the morning gladiator fights. The entire city would celebrate for the next three weeks in preparation for Lucius’s departure with a Lliadan legion.

He needed to find Marcus and place bets on the morrow’s arena match. He looked forward to watching the Beast...Steve. Watching how he handled himself in a pit match while lucid, not bleeding from dozens of lash wounds. Bucky pushed open the door to his chambers and quickly let his ceremonial family robes fall. His mother had a way of demanding the utmost propriety out of him at all times.

Bucky strode through the chamber, slipping out of his sandals, and stripping off his tunic. He’d have Antonia draw him up a warm bath. Perhaps she would read to him while he soaked--help take his mind off of every other problem.

He opened the door to his private chambers and stepped through.

The Beast of Kael was standing, naked by his bed.


	9. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **********Chapter 8 Warnings** ** ** ** **
> 
> Graphic Sexual Encounter

Steve stood as still as possible as Bucky stepped in the room. The curtains were still drawn, the sun leaking through in thin strips of light, leaving everything else a faded grey.

Bucky wore only a pair of leggings. He stopped in place--looked surprised.

Steve cleared his throat. “I, well...here.” He stepped forward and handed Lucius’s note over. Bucky kept his eyes on Steve’s face, watching for something, expression unreadable. He finally looked down and broke the seal--eyes scanning the page.

He huffed, then crumpled the paper in his hands. “A gift. From my father. Again.” He walked forward, then past Steve without even looking his direction.

Steve turned, eyes following. Bucky bent down behind the bed, fumbling at something, then walked back around Steve once more, arms full of wood. He bent down at the fireplace across the room, working.

“You realize I’ve been standing here naked, waiting for you as the sun has moved from its apex down to the horizon. And now you ignore me?”

Bucky barked a laugh, still working the fireplace, still not looking at Steve. “I’m sure you stood the entire time.” The fire caught suddenly, and he backed away looking pleased. Then he turned, motioning to the bed. A clear indent in the blankets could be seen.

Steve swallowed. “Well, I’ve been sitting on occasion. Still naked.”

“Noted. Next time you choose to spend your day standing around without clothes, feel free to build up the fire. It’s cold in here.”

“You don’t say.” Steve bit the words off, a growl working its way up his throat. He was angry, humiliated, and one step away from telling Mabakai and his _game_ to fuck off the next time he saw them. He couldn’t be further from avenging his wife’s death. Avenging his village. Avenging his people.

“So.” Bucky walked up to Steve, stepping uncomfortably close. “My father sent you. Yet, from what I know of you thus far, I imagine you aren’t entirely thrilled with the situation as it presents itself.”

Steve could feel James’s breath on his face. It smelled faintly of orange. “Do you want to fuck me, my lord?” He thought about sex, and men, and women, and _Eilidh_ and he reached forward and touched James on the neck gently.

“No.”

Bucky swallowed and Steve could feel every moment under his fingers.

“I want _you_ to fuck me.”

Steve’s stomach dropped and it felt hard to breath. “I’m sorry?” It came out a ragged whisper. Bucky stepped impossibly closer.

“My father gave you to me?”

“Yes, but–”

Bucky pushed forward and Steve could feel him press against him. His cock was already hard, pushing against the thin layer of fabric. Steve’s body responded, even without the pretense of drugs. He shivered, though the fire was finally starting to take the edge off the bitter cold of the room.

“Do I need to repeat myself? Slave?”

With that one word, Bucky reminded Steve of their proper order, and of who he was. Steve growled and grabbed Bucky with both hands, easily turning him and throwing him towards the bed. Bucky laughed, a hoarse, desperate thing, and Steve pinned him down, one arm against his throat, the other grasping both Bucky’s wrists above his head. “This is what you want? A slave to fuck you? To degrade you? To take you down a notch?” Steve spit the words, anger finally released, but Bucky just nodded, groaning underneath him.

Steve rutted against him, pushing harder, and harder still. He released his grip from Bucky’s throat and started to work at the leggings, pushing them down as quickly as he could. Bucky reached out and tried to grasp at Steve’s cock, but he slapped his hands away.

“I could kill you, you know.”

Bucky looked up at him from the bed, a smile lighting his face. “So you’ve said. I remind you again, I think you’d find it more difficult than anticipated.”

“I think you’re a pompous ass. Turn over.”

Bucky closed his eyes and obeyed, rolling from front to back and getting up on his knees. Steve gripped his hips tightly, finger bruising the flesh. The scar he had noticed earlier traveled all the way down to Bucky’s left hip. He fit his fingers in the damaged flesh and Bucky writhed underneath him. Steve’s own cock was hard, starting to leak, and he pumped it once with his hand, groaning above Bucky.

“Are you going to fuck me, or pleasure yourself?”

He snarled, and split the globes of flesh easily with both hands, feeling at Bucky’s entrance with his cock, and shoving in. It was rough, almost too dry, and verging on painful. Bucky cried out underneath him, then pushed back eagerly. Steve fit his left hand back around hip bone, and used his right to push down on the back of Bucky’s neck, forcing his cries of pleasure into the thick blankets.

“You conceited, spoiled, self-righteous child.” Steve punctuated each claim with a vicious thrust and Bucky still took it, shuddering but eager. His body was so warm, so soft underneath him. Dark curls spilled around his head and Steve felt the urge to see him, watch his eyes, look on his face as they fucked. He wanted to bend down and taste his lips.

He shook his head, anger growing even wilder. He hated this man. Hated everything he stood for. Steve felt a familiar tightening in his gut and moaned. _Not yet._

He felt Bucky struggle underneath him for a second, and realized he was trying to reach his own cock. Steve pushed his weight further into him, and Bucky gasped.

“Don’t. You want me to fuck you, then I fuck you and you wait for me to come. Boy.” Steve forced out the last words, trying desperately to hold back, but he just couldn’t any more. He pulled back, and thrust in one last time, feeling release, waves of pleasure washing over him. He closed his eyes and held himself there, still pinning Bucky down, pushing their bodies together as close as physically possible.

He let each aftershock of pleasure run through him until he was left shivering. Then he finally let go and pulled out, rolling off of Bucky onto his back.

Bucky heaved a giant breath, then rolled over. He grabbed his own cock, still hard and thick, and started pumping, his breathing growing more frantic. Steve watched him, his neck thrown back and his chest heaving. Watched his hand working at his own cock, practiced and effortless. He inhaled, sudden, and then Steve watched him spill--spurting streams of come over his belly and thighs.

Steve wanted to taste him again.

Something tore, deep in his chest. It was a pain so visceral he almost cried out from it. He couldn’t turn back from this, from what he was now, yet there was something about this man that felt like home.

“Fuck.”

It was the first coherent word out of Bucky’s mouth and it broke the silence like a sigh.

Steve pushed up from the bed and stood, looking down on Bucky’s prone form. “Are you done with me, my lord?” He forced the words from his lips, angry and helpless. He wanted to bask in the afterglow of orgasm. He wanted to punch something until he felt his own muscles tear.

Bucky worked himself up on his elbows, then reached across the bed. He pulled one of the smaller blankets over and started wiping himself down. “Oh, sit back down and cut out the theatrics.”

“Excuse me, my lord?”

Bucky threw the blanket towards him and Steve caught it. It dangled from his hands, damp. Bucky motioned to Steve’s cock. “Clean up. And quit calling me _my lord_. If you’re going to fall back into that habit after every time we fuck I’m going to have my father replace you.”

Steve wiped at himself, then dropped the blanket just in time to catch the bundle of clothes Bucky next threw.

“Get dressed. Then sit. I’d like to talk.” Bucky moved gracefully from the bed to the next room over, and Steve heard water running. He shrugged back into his clothes, and padded barefoot to the hearth. The room was smaller than the adjoining chambers, barely room for the bed and fireplace, but it was warm in a way that felt lived in and loved. He let the fire warm him for a moment, then stepped up to the mantel, inspecting the wood. There were chisel marks scratched into the cladding, just above the header. They were all but invisible unless you were of the right height and standing up against the wood. He could see various dates, with numerical etchings next to each. Some dates had as many as fifteen, some none. Each group was viciously crossed out before moving to the next date.

“The work of an insane man.”

Steve flinched, startled by the voice directly behind him. For a Lliadan, the man could move quieter than any clansman. He turned. Bucky wore a soft robe of dark blue fabric tied about his waist. He smelled clean, of soap and something vaguely cinnamon, though he’d only been out of the bedchamber a minute. His face looked drawn, as though recollecting something that pained him. Then he shrugged and it fell away, leaving pristine arrogance behind. “Your men are frightened.”

Steve crossed his arms, refusing to budge from his position. “The gladiators? Not my men.”

“Well. The men you sleep with, dine with, and coerce to prepare and rehearse battle formations on our family’s practice arena. They are frightened.” Bucky stepped forward, once again putting himself too close.

“They are forced out into the arena upon penalty of death, to be laughed and jeered at. Then they fight. And sometimes they die anyways. Of course they’re frightened.”

“Be careful this time, Steve.” Bucky reached out and touched his arm. It was a tender thing, but Steve yanked away.

“Don’t pretend you are any different. That you _care_. You’re a part of this mess. You don’t get to sit here with your cautionary pleas and your _teach-me-your-ways_ bullshit. If watching a herd of frightened animals disturbs you so much, then try looking closer and seeing _men_.” He turned back to the wood and reached up, running his finger along the etchings. The man was infuriating. He thought for a moment, wondering exactly what part of this conversation he was supposed to be parroting back to Lucius. Thought again about what he was missing here, why Lucius needed eyes on his own son.

“The fights aren’t always performances. Sometimes they want to see death.”

“I’m familiar with the concept. Two men died the last time I was in the arena.”

Bucky backed up a step, finally giving Steve the space he so craved. He held his hands out, palms open, as though gesturing in peace. “They’ve seen you leading them. The gladiators. They’ve seen you trying to make them work together the past few days. They are going to make an example of you one of these fights.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

Steve growled, fists clenching. “Life isn’t fair, princeling. You can’t have this both ways. You can’t try to help us while seated on your immaculate podium.”

Bucky threw up his hands and strode towards the next room. He threw open the doors. “They’ll start by making you feel safe. By building you up to be invincible in the ring. They’ll put you against your own, and you’ll perform and they’ll cheer. Then the stakes will rise. They’ll test you against another house’s gladiators. Maybe one at first--their champion. Maybe two men the next time. All will lead up to a final battle--a final humiliation. Someone will have to die.” He motioned with his hands toward the open door. “You’re a half-decent fuck. Try not to let it be you.”

Steve brushed past him, and didn’t look back.

The days fused together into a static pattern. Steve grasped at a tentative basic lead and the men around him responded with some semblance of rudimentary order. He saw Bucky occasionally at the Ludus--laughing amiably with the gladiators and joining in with their exercise. Steve still reported to his rooms when necessary, and would just as frequently report to Lucius about what was said. He completed the latter task with dead eyes, staring just past Lucius, as though if he didn’t bring the man into focus, then he could pretend the entire scenario wasn’t quite real.

He fought in the arena again and again. It wasn’t exactly like Bucky predicted. Each time, they were paired days prior and had time to choreograph their fights. They put on shows, imitating real battles, pretending life-threatening wounds, screaming and growling and acting like the savage beasts the Lliadans wanted to see. Occasionally they went up against other men from nearby Luduses, owned by other elite families. These fights were more unpredictable, but Lucius had accumulated enough wealth to have top pick of the daily arrival of slaves to Lliad City. His warriors were the fiercest and finest in all of Lliad City.

They slept and fought and ate and fought and occasionally they were paraded about the city as part of a grand spectacle; painted with crushed, shimmering minerals and adorned with leather collars. Steve had visions of leading these men to victory, of usurping the Barnes family from their tennous ivory tower. He dreamed of green forests, villages smeared with blood as ash rained from the sky.

The reality was far less dramatic. He barely had a moment to shovel a meal into his mouth let alone lead twenty gladiators to take over the city. Each day he rose felt darker--an insidious and creeping wash of despair settling in heavily about his shoulders. He felt impotent. He felt complicit in his own captivity.

Weeks passed, and as he proved docile and broken, he was allowed out of the Ludus with the other gladiators. He was collared and allowed free reign by himself in the city below for a few hours at a time. It was a liberty of sorts, but hardly freedom. There was no mistaking what he was– the healed brand was etched forever into his pale skin.

They gave the winning gladiators coin to spend in the marketplace or at the brothels. It was a pittance, but it was something to try for, to live for; those precious moments to yourself where you could reach out and tug upon a shadow of humanity.

Steve hated himself for relishing them. But he saved up his winnings each week, and wandered the streets, wherever his feet would carry him. The buildings and noise of the city crowded him, but in those moments he could escape the scent of war and imagine himself elsewhere, someplace green, someplace alive.

He walked the market stalls now, watching the vendors selling their merchandise and the simple city folk eyeing the wares. It was strange to see these people buying basic items like bread, cheese, and cloth. They were the same folk who traipsed to the arena by the thousands to scream and holler for Steve’s death or life--the same who relished the flow of blood and gore. Yet here they were, leading unassuming lives, like any member of his own clan.

As he walked, he gathered a small processional trailing behind him. City children saw the gladiators as heroes, idols, gods. They followed him now, picking up sticks and brandishing them, calling out _For Lliada!_ and _Death to the Slave!_ They played the part well. He turned to watch them now and again, and they looked upon him with reverence and fear. People congregated and laughed at the spectacle of the children, who were trying so hard to win the admiration of a gladiator. Steve smiled at them, and a young girl shrieked with glee, then ran up to him.

“You’re my favorite!”

“Is that so?” Steve knelt down to her level, and she giggled, thrusting her stick towards him as though felling him in battle. He mimed falling back and grabbing at his heart, and she drew back.

“Someday, I will be a great warrior for Lliad.” She spoke with a serious and solemnity that belied her age. Steve settled on a knee and nodded along, giving space for her words to rise.

“I’m certain of it.”

“I like to watch you fight. The gladiators are so frightened of you! I’d like for them to give you a real sword so that you can make them bleed.”

Steve shivered. A few other boys crept close, watching the exchange--envious of this young girl who’d had the courage to approach the gladiator and speak.

“My father says you will kill soon. That one day it will be too much and your anger will shine through. That your anger is why they call you Beast.” She smiled at him, once more, and she shone, lit golden by the sun. “Come on!” She skipped away, and the boys followed her--their own personal empress of sunlight. Steve watched them go. The poison of the city ran deep and he felt powerless to quench the flow.

The people around him bustled on, and he rose to his feet and walked on. He came to the end of the market and pushed his way through the final thrall of townspeople. The streets outside the city center were lined with crushed white stone. As he picked his way about the path, he listened to the call of the birds and wandered uphill, past houses and shops, on and on until at last he found himself at the end of the walkway, in front of a pair of wooden doors set into an enormous circular wall.

“Your papers.”

Steve looked up at the two men blocking his path. Both wore the green and yellow colors of the Iraelius family--one of the more prominent houses in the city.

“Excuse me?”

“Papers,” barked the larger of the two. He stood with his thick arms crossed in front of his chest, as immovable as a piece of carved stone. Steve fought down the urge to see him felled.

“What is this place?” He tried to peer around the guards, but they just shuffled closer together. “I don’t have papers.” He could hear the sounds of fighting--the ring ofmetal hitting metal, and muffled shouting.

The guard who spoke straightened almost imperceptibly, and looked past him as a new voice broke the stagnant air.

“He’s with me.”

Steve turned and watched the woman approach.She was tall, with dark curls bound up and around her head then cascading down her left shoulder. She wore practice leathers, but rather than giving the cumbersome appearance of girth, they fit her body like a glove. She looked powerful, poised, and wholly in control. Four slaves followed her--three women and one man. They stopped as she did; a step in front of Steve, staring the guards down.

“He belongs to the Barnes house. He isn’t one of yours, Mistress. I can’t allow him inside without a reason.”

Steve watched the guard lick his lips as though nervous but adamant about not looking the fool.

“And isn’t James inside?”

“I...yes, but…”

“Then it seems he has a reason. I’ll just show him the way, shall I?”

She pushed through, and nodded to Steve who followed, grinning.

“But he didn’t have papers!” The first guard shouted after them, desperately trying to gain some semblance of control back. Steve turned and shrugged his shoulders, then winked as the man glared back.

“Follow.” Her voice rang out and Steve jogged up and fell in beside her, matching her step for step. “Come to watch your master go a round in the ring?”

Steve didn’t answer--just walked. The doors opened onto an enormous and spacious field. It was segregated into dozens of sandy practice arenas that were each separated by more of the glittering white stone he’d seen in the city. They continued almost as far as he could see, all enclosed by wood, set away from the public gaze. A perfect training ground to breed royal warrior princelings. Somewhere away from the blood of the gladiators. Somewhere unsoiled and clean, where the words _for Lliad_ still had meaning and weren’t stained by the utterings of hypocrites.

Steve wanted so badly to spit upon the sparkling sand.

“Hold!”

He looked up at the first yard in front of him--saw two men in full body armor fall back for a moment, breathing and circling.

“And again!”

The weaponsmaster inside the practice ring seemed to be watching the pair and yelling the commands. The woman sidled up to the fence and leaned forward, casually. Steve stepped up next to her, well aware of the other slave at her side eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.” She didn’t look at Steve, instead focused on the match. “You’ve inspired a healthy fear of Kaelish clansmen. You know, they still claim to see you in the hills? The famous beast, the warrior, coming for Lliadan blood? Quite a reputation for one so young.”

Steve felt torn between ignoring her words, and engaging her further in his desperation to hear more of how his people fared in this unending war. “I’m no younger than you,” he grunted.

She laughed, a tinkling, bell like sound. “No, I suppose not. We become what the world needs of us, no matter the age.” She drifted off for a moment, in perfunctory silence.

“And how many of my people has your family claimed responsibility for murdering? How many of your slaves have been torn screaming from their families?”

The slave at her side stiffened and stepped forward, but she merely held a hand up. “A fair question.”

“Your bodyguard seems intent on protecting your honor.” He couldn’t say why he was pushing her so much, only that there was something in her gaze, something almost sincere. She just laughed again.

“Leitan is not my bodyguard. If I felt threatened in any way, you would know.” She looked at him now, waiting. She nodded, satisfied at his silence. Leitan continued to watch him, unimpressed. “Your master fights well.” She was watching the two men again.

Steve focused in on their fight. Both men wore heavy leather padding, and had steel helmets pulled firmly over their faces. The smaller man with the broadsword moved with a precision that had Steve intrigued. He danced in between blows from his larger opponent’s mace. Each movement carried the swordsman precisely within striking distance before he fell back easily, appearing to give ground.

A rhythmic clarity to the entire battle began to emerge as Steve watched. The smaller man was goading the macebearer--forcing his hand, forcing his strike. With each failure, the macebearer grew more and more weary, forced to continue to fight while the swordsman danced in and out of reach with minimal effort. It was a grace that seemed uniquely unsuited to dispatching a man with a mace, and yet every movement was pulled from an incredible variety of technique and motion; a patchwork of methods that was entirely un-Lliadan. This fighter was a master, turning every disadvantage into an asset. The larger man stumbled, throwing himself entirely into one last striked, and the swordsman danced into range. With an almost laughably small movement, he tapped his opponent on the shoulder and the macebearer fell--his weight carrying him to the ground with a loud thud.

“Match!” The weaponsmaster threw down a strip of white fabric and the swordsman stepped back and stripped off his helmet. Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

It was Bucky.

 _I could kill you_ , Steve had said.

_“I think you’d find it more difficult than anticipated…”_

“Steve?” Bucky looked over, seeing him standing there. Steve felt as though the entire world shifted. Bucky bent down and offered a hand to his opponent. He pulled him up, and the man stripped off his helmet. Steve recognized him as one of the upper elite who he’d spoken with briefly on the night after his first fight. Marcus. He stood, then fell back over and waved Bucky on. Bucky sauntered towards Steve, flushed with excitement from the well played match. Steve watched the woman next to him push herself upright from the fence.

“Hello James. Either of you boys up for a real match?,” she nodded towards Marcus who was still fighting with his armor.

“As enticing as the offer is, I’d sooner jump in the pit and prove my honor against the gladiators, Liat.” Bucky turned away from the her, his eyes losing some of the warmth from his win.

Liat shrugged. “I’ll find someone more capable.” She pushed away from the fence and reached out--gently touching Steve’s shoulder. “Lovely to exchange pleasantries. Next time you want to fetch your master, I suggest bringing a note from his father. James is on a tight leash, and the guards might prove more amenable, should I not be there to intercede.”

Bucky’s scowl grew deeper, and Steve almost barked a laugh. Watching someone take the interminably pompous ass down a peg was more than worth the cost of wasting away all of his precious earned free time around the Lliadan elite. She swept away, Leitan following. Three women peeled away from the path to join and Steve blinked. Of course Leitan wasn’t the bodyguard. How easy it was to ignore three slave women…

“What are you doing speaking with Liat?”Bucky had wheeled on him and was pressing close.

Steve smelled the musty leather, and a faintly spiced scent belonging entirely to the man. “Sorry?”

“Don’t talk to that woman. She’s a snake.”

“Seemed perfectly reasonable to me. She _did_ look like she needed someone more capable to fight with.”

“Bucky!” Marcus was jogging towards them now, having finally wrestled out of his dented helmet and armor.

“We’ll finish this in a moment,” Bucky hissed, then he turned to greet his friend. “Well fought!”

“Well fought my ass. You were playing with me the entire time!” Marcus was grinning as he extended an arm and clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “What was that thing you did at the end there? The sweeping, misdirections...how did you change so quickly?”

“Cleachtadh.” Steve spoke quietly, as Bucky was opening his mouth. They both turned to look at him. “The cleachtadh,” he repeated, “is a sacred form of fighting among Kaelish warriors. He,” Steve glared pointedly at Bucky, “manipulated the men he owns into training him in it.”

Bucky watched him for a moment, pausing just long enough to be certain Steve was finished, then turned back to Marcus. “As I was about to say. I believe you called it _dancing_ the other day. I did warn you it might be worth knowing.”

“And I told you I’d learn! Perhaps tomorrow, after–”

Steve wasn’t finished. “Your form is terrible. You’d never win in a fair fight against a Kael.” Bucky turned to glare at him, but Marcus ignored his words completely.

“Your _beast_ of fame appears to be no more than an irritating lap dog. Perhaps tomorrow, you can show me…” Marcus trailed off when Steve bristled and stepped forward.

Steve purposely looked down to Marcus’s feet, and slowly back up his entire body, before taking one step back again. “Showing you won’t help. It is a thing for...how do you say it?” Steve dragged on his vowels, tongued over each syllable for emphasis. “For warriors. Not little boys.”

Marcus looked at him incredulously then turned back to Bucky. “You put up with this?”

Bucky put a hand up on Steve’s forearm--a warning. Steve backed away and looked down as though suitably chastened. “He amuses me.”

“You need to control your slave. He ought to be whipped.”

“But then I’d have to take him to bed bloody. I’d hate to stain the sheets.”

Marcus burst into laughter. “I suppose I’d also take the bit of insolence if the fuck was well worth it.” He threw a friendly arm around Bucky and they started walking back down the path. Bucky snapped his fingers, and Steve fell obediently in behind, straining to hear the rest of the conversation.

“...I just think you should consider it.”

“I think you believe me to be an idiot.” Bucky’s earlier ease was replaced by a sharp tension in his shoulders, and Steve wondered at what they could possibly be referring to.

“Bucky. Listen. You made a mess of it at the enclave. No one respects you. I’m sorry–” Marcus held up a hand as Bucky made to interrupt, “--but it’s true! Your father will leave you in charge of the house soon when he rides to war and you have few friends. The heads of other houses are already talking. They mean to take control of the city--to push your family out. You need to make a show of pure power. Show them that it doesn’t matter who sits at the head of the Barnes house so long as he has the strongest claim.”

“You act as though I don’t know of the additional clauses put in place if I let you challenge the house in an official arena fight. The challenging house is allowed extra men if they fall low enough in the ranks. You know that. Your house is on the bottom tier and not likely to rise soon. Who’s to say you won’t make a play for the city and bring in every additional gladiator you’re able?”

“Bucky.” Marcus stopped and reached out, grasping Bucky’s hands to his chest. “I’m trying to help you. As a friend. You need to make a show of stomping out resistance. It’s a ploy. We make them think that House Akellior is vying for position, but you stamp us out. It will give you credibility. And we won’t lose anything. We are already on the bottom of the rankings.”

“Your father won’t like this.”

“My father put me up to this!”

Steve watched Bucky--watched him thinking. Steve was missing some key piece in this dialogue. There was no good reason why there should be an actual clause for forfeiture of House position. Then again, there was no good reason children should be excited to watch him eviscerate another human being. Lliad City was a cesspool of political maneuvering and betrayal.

“Your father is one of the most outspoken against my lead.”

“I swear to you. We want to see House Barnes stay at the top. Without your protection, our house is nothing. It will work.”

“It _might_ work…” Bucky looked to Steve now, sizing him, then back at Marcus. “Initiate the challenge. I will accept.”

Marcus smiled--a bright glowing thing. He looked ridiculous. Steve watched the two men grasp arms together, sealing the promise. Then Marcus looked up at the horizon. “It will work. You’ll see!” He left, heading towards the town. He looked like an overgrown, doddering bear cub. Bucky watched him go before rounding on Steve.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at slave,” Bucky hissed, “but I think you are forgetting who is in control here.”

“If you’d like to make a stop at the arena, I’m sure we could find time in your busy schedule to have me suitably flayed at the stake.”

“I think you’ll be too busy preparing for tomorrow.” Bucky looked at him then, an almost sad lilt to his voice. Steve watched a stray curl on his head as it danced in a sudden gust of wind.

“I assume that cryptic remark has something to do with the conversation I was just privy to?”

“You’re going to fight tomorrow.”

“What a surprise.”

“For House Barnes. You will be my champion. Against Marcus’s pick.”

“We’ve fought House Akelior before. They are weak--hardly fighters. I can’t imagine their prize champion to be much different.”

“He won’t be. But this challenge? It’s a battle to the death.”

Steve felt the wind pick up again, and dust started to blow. He looked at the ground, a solemn tranquility overtaking his thoughts. “I was never supposed to be a warrior. It is what Kael needed. So it is what I became. But don’t make me kill for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not though. You’re Lliadan. Killing is in your blood.” He looked across the white sparkling stone to a stray red flower, struggling in the sudden breeze. It bent to the ground, bowing to the force of nature, yet not losing a single petal. “Why would you choose me?”

“I trust you.”

“You trust too easily. You don’t know me, boy.”

“I see you with your men. Your people. They look up to you. It’s only been a few weeks, yet the change has blossomed within them. They live like one. They fight like one. They are human again.”

“I did not do that.” He stopped and reached forward, touched Bucky’s arm. It was an intimate gesture, but one born of fear. Steve knew even as Bucky pulled away that he had stepped too far. He looked back to the ground. “Do not make me kill for you.”

“You are my champion, Steve.”

There was a finality to the tone. They walked in silence and entered the marketplace. People were still gathered, buying the items they would need for the week to feed and clothe and care for their families. The city folk stepped aside this time--aware that they were in the presence of royalty. Steve followed Bucky closely, mirroring his every step and feeling the heavy weight of the leather about his throat.


	10. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **************Chapter 9 Warnings** ** ** ** ** ** **
> 
> Graphic Battle Scene
> 
> ***

The battle between the houses happened sooner than Steve had thought possible.

The morning after witnessing Bucky and Marcus make the deal, the guards roused him from a fitful slumber and led him down to the pits. He’d been washed and prepared for battle, and despite his questioning, no one spoke a word to him.

They pushed him out into the arena clad in leathers and armed with only a single blade and shield. The crowds were already loud and raucous--wrapped up in the drama of a lesser house challenging the ruling family. They loved the _Beast_ narrative that was pushed by the Barnes house, but they were also exhilarated by the prospects of a fall from greatness.

Lightning cracked as the sky opened up and cold rain fell. It bit into Steve’s flesh and left him chilled and sapped of energy. He narrowed his eyes and watched his opponent, circling, testing, trying to find an opening.

The fight had gone on too long, he’d spent too long trying to make headway without wounding his fellow Kael. He didn’t want to hurt the man, and he didn’t want to sentence him to death for only being purchased by the wrong owner.

He was fighting the wrong battle. He was exhausted and enraged. There was no way out but a death, and no matter what the aching throb in his chest tried to tell him, he couldn’t let that death be him.

Despite the unseasonable rain, there was still a crowd.This wasn’t the rain of the wet seasons. This was something different, something angry and foreign. Steve tried to coax his body back to warmth with his breaths. He tried to call upon the clansmen magic, tried to fix his mind on clarity, but it was useless. He had strayed too far from home, too far from himself.

He spared a quick glance up at the Barnes podium. Bucky sat there at the head. His father was curiously absent, allowing Bucky this moment, letting him soak up the victory for the Barnes house. Bucky gripped his seat tightly and leaned forward, mouthing something. Steve couldn’t make it out. He turned back to the other gladiator in the ring.

The champion of House Akellior watched him and let out an animalistic growl as he advanced. The gladiator stumbled, and shook his head, trying to get to Steve, trying not to succumb to the injuries he’d been dealt. Steve straightened and opened his arms, taunting his opponent. He grinned as water dripped from his hair to his eyes, and he looked back up to the sky, opening his mouth and letting the water wash over his body, tasting the freshness of the earth. Dirt and blood sluiced off his bare skin as he knelt down in the sand, laying down his sword and shield and turning his open palms upward. He breathed, let the pull of his injuries focus him. Marcus’s champion was strong, a worthy opponent. He was a bear of a man, and despite Steve’s initial motive to disarm him without causing harm, he’d found himself locked into painful combat--he’d thrown himself into completely, just trying to stay alive. Now Steve felt the silence of the crowd as a thrum of nervous energy hummed through the air. They didn’t know what was about to happen.

Steve waited.

The gladiator charged and Steve burned to life with movement. He bent backwards as the man attacked, his golden hair brushing against sand. The swinging sword met only empty air as Steve’s opponent fell towards him, expecting resistance and hitting none. Steve bent to the side and rolled, coming to his feet behind the gladiator. He ran forward, scooping down and picking up his sword and swung hard, but the man was quick--quicker than expected. He brought his shield up in time and caught the Steve’s blow, though his forearm shattered. The Champion of Akellior fell to his knees, letting out a desperate wheezing sound of pain, and Steve advanced ready to deliver the killing blow when ordered.

He felt sick to his stomach.

“Hold!” Marcus was standing now, arms crossed. The rain didn’t spare royalty; his thick locks were plastered down to his face and he looked anything but regal. “House Akellior feels that the challenge is not sufficient for the legendary Beast of the Barnes House. As admissible by our standings in the arena rankings, we will allow our champion assistance in his fight.

Steve gripped his sword, his fingers white with tension. He wasn’t sure what was happening. It was supposed to be a set-up, a ploy for Bucky to gain respect as a leader. He watched Bucky grab ahold of Marcus’s arm, watched him pull the man down to his level and speak. He looked frantic. Marcus leaned down for a moment, then turned back to the arena. “Luck to all!”

There was a shiver of time as Steve watched Bucky’s face crumple, and then the iron gates opened as three more gladiators stepped onto the sand.

Bucky gripped the sides of his seat so hard that he could feel his fingernails leaving indentations in the soft wood. Down in the arena, Steve turned away from him and faced the doors, as three more men stalked out. “Marcus?”

They fanned out, surrounding Steve on all sides.

“What are you doing?” Bucky finally tore his eyes away from the bloodbath that was about to unfold to look at his friend. “We had a deal. You swore...you said this was–” he cut off as Steve took the first blow--the blunt edge of a blade to his ribs as he tried to defend his flank. “Marcus, you have to call this off.”

Marcus didn’t turn to face him, instead regarded the fight below with a cool, pitiless gaze that clashed with everything Bucky knew about him. He looked aged and wrong.

“I’m sorry. I had to do it.” His shoulders tensed, rising ever so slightly. “I’m sorry Bucky.”

“Call it off. They’ll kill him!”

“Him?” Marcus swung around, finally ready to engage. “You should be worried about your _House_. Your family. What the other houses might do when it all finally comes tumbling down. Your priorities have always been questionable, but all of this? For _him_?”

Bucky scanned the crowds, looked out to the podiums--the special seating for the rich and elite. He saw them cheering and yelling. He could see the excitement reflected in a thousand faces. It was all a game. The people of Lliad City were about to watch first the murder of a man, then the fall of an entire House. They screamed and clapped with a stunted morality that appalled him, and they had no idea. They loved every moment of entertainment. He saw Liat, a couple of sections over, tense in her seat and clasping her hands together. He saw Verina, and the rest of House Lugdunus, cheering in anticipation. Marcus’s father sat directly behind Bucky, a smug smile on his face as his fingers danced along the edge of his chair. He was playing puppeteer to Marcus’s actions. _He must be_ , Bucky thought in desperation.

There was no one who would fight to see his family stay in power. His father hadn’t yet left the city and already Bucky had made a fatal miscalculation.

“Oh, Marcus.” The words escaped, like a death rattle.

Below, Steve tripped, falling to the sand. He held one arm against his side, and Bucky could see the spill of crimson starting to flow. He would die, alone, the cheers of his enemies echoing in his ears. Bucky didn’t know why the thought pained him, why his chest constricted, and it hurt to breathe.

“I thought you were my friend.”

“You trust too easily.” Marcus shrugged in nonchalance and Bucky couldn’t even bring himself to hate the man--his friend--only doing everything in his power to save his own family. _You trust too easily._ Steve had said it as well.

Bucky stood. “This is not fair. You can’t end in this way!” _He doesn’t deserve this,_ he thought. Bucky leaned over the edge of the podium, gauging the distance. It wouldn’t kill him. It shouldn’t even break a bone if he rolled correctly, and he could do something. He could help. Bucky breathed in, steadying himself, trying to ease the flare of panicked tendrils that twisted deep in his gut.

“James.” A hand fell on his shoulder and he turned to find himself face to face with Messalina. Her grip tightened and he saw himself reflected in her eyes; small, a child again. “Sit down.” She guided him back to his seat and paused near Marcus for a moment, whispering something in his ear. He paled, then nodded, and moved back to sit near his father once more.

Bucky felt himself hit the seat.

“You’ve created an enormous mess.”

Steve twisted down below, out of the grip of one of the gladiators who had been holding him hostage for the other two to take turns beating. They were making a show of it--of this death. Bucky tensed again, as Steve took another blow, this time to the face. Blood poured from his nose and Bucky closed his eyes.

“Look at him.” Messaline spoke coldly, but Bucky refused. “Look at him, James. This was your doing. You can at least do your plaything the courtesy of watching how he dies at your hands.”

“I was made to fight, Mother. I wasn’t made for this. For these political games. Let me lead the way I was born to lead! Let me command the armies. Let me–”

“You infant. You’ve done enough damage here. You will not be leading any armies. And you certainly won’t be leading this house. Watch your champion in his death throes and take note. At least the Kaelish Beast knows how to exit a scene.” She released his shoulder, and he could feel the remnants of strength from her grasp, tingling down his forearm. “Enjoy the weather. Smile. Show the people what little concern you have for this bit of treachery. I’ll salvage what I can of our holdings and will deal with the Akellior family.”

Steve fell again. Bucky could see his chest heaving--despite the heavy rain, he almost heard each gasp of breath. He forced himself to stay seated. Forced his eyes on the match.

The four Akellior gladiators heaved Steve to his knees.

Steve’s nose dripped blood down his face. It was broken. He could only gasp in air through his mouth, though each breath was utter torment to his bruised and broken ribs. He danced through the rain, twisting and kicking and carving his blade through thick droplets. It was never enough. It could never be enough.

There were too many men.

He couldn’t see the podium anymore--couldn’t spare a moment to look for Bucky. Steve didn’t want to die like this. He delivered a roundhouse kick to the chest of one, and swung his blade into another, but it was deflected once again by thick metal. He gasped, exhausted, and kept pushing forward, refusing to get boxed in.

He didn’t want to die.

The rain spilled down around him, swirling the sand in muddied eddies around his feet. Each step sucked his legs down further. It was harder and harder to move.

He didn’t want to die.

It was a warmth in his chest, a spark he held onto desperately. He didn’t realize that thought even still existed within him. He didn’t realize that this physical grip upon the material world had coalesced inside him.

“I don’t want to die.”

The words tumbled from his lips, gasping, heaving things--heavy with clotted blood. They spilled free, and rose in the air, electric. He tried to breathe them back in, accept his fate. Instead they flew.

“I don’t want to die.”

He spun, and twirled, and twisted, and flesh hit flesh. He screamed in Kaeldish, for Kael, for Eilidh, for the old Shaman of his village who watched him grow up--the Shaman who sat with weathered hand around Steve’s young fingers, molding them in patterns, tonguing syllables together, bringing color to life. _I was never meant to be a fighter…_

“I don’t want to die!”

His sword hit shield once again and he lost his grip. The metal fell from frozen fingers. They were close now, all four, and he swung out with bare fists, kicked out with booted feat, he would not die here.

He stumbled, falling, and they closed in holding him to his knees.

“I don’t want to die.” It was a gasping thing. A plea. A prayer.

The crowds cheered.

Mabakai stood, pressed against the dark wood of the pits.

“What’s happening? Why are they cheering? Has he won?” Dovagni clattered behind him, anxious to look, unable to stop the anxious flow of words.

“Your incessant pestering makes me want to rip your tongue out and use it as a sponge to soak up this infernal wetness.” Mabakai watched through the crack in the wood, trying desperately to see something, anything, through the torrent of water.

“He has to win. We can’t do this without him. We need to help him. You need to help him Mabakai, we need to be out there!”

“Dovagni.” Mabakai turned finally, his voice pitched dangerously low.

“We are nothing. I know. We have no choice. We have nothing. We are slaves.” Dovagni’s voice trailed off and Mabakai turned back to the crack. “But he made me wish for more.”

It was nothing more than a whisper, but Mabakai shivered as the sound flickered out.

“It appears the mighty Beast has been felled by House Akellior!” Marcus’s voice rang out, loud and clear through the deluge. He’d stepped forward, and Bucky watched him grip the edges of the podium. He turned briefly, and only slightest furrow in his brow dampened the bright smile that lit his entire face.

The four gladiators surrounded Steve. The cheers went up and Bucky looked down again--kept his eyes on Steve. A single Akellior gladiator stepped forward and raised his blade. Blood poured down Steve’s face, and he gasped for breath. He didn’t speak. He was on his knees, chest heaving as the men held tight to his flesh, forcing him down in the sand and he didn’t speak. Bucky yearned to hear his voice again, he was desperate for Steve to look at him.

Steve kept his burning eyes on Marcus.

A sigh went through the stadium then, as red began to rain down from the benches. Flowers. Hespa’s. Hundreds of them joined the rain and fell, darkening in the wet mud. The townspeople and the elites turned, confused and unsure, trying to find the source of the blooms as they rained down.

Bucky saw it before most. They came from the slaves. The servants, the house slaves, the attendants, all stood in silence, tossing flowers, refusing to be cowed by their masters. The blooms settled on the floor of the arena, far below, and Bucky watched as their hands raised to their chests. They beat once. Then twice.

They would suffer later for this exquisite disobedience.

Marcus ignored it all. “House Akellior gives permission to the champions.” Marcus paused for effect, but his words had lost their meaning during the display and the silent arena just watched. “Death!”

Steve looked up and Bucky finally could see the blue of his eyes. Steve smiled.

The call for death rang out, and Steve waited, waited for the sword to fall.

The man to his left sprang forward and cut down with his blade, slicing straight through the flesh of the gladiator wielding the sword above Steve’s head.

Chaos erupted around them. People were screaming, shouting, and Steve rolled, coming up under the injured man and throwing his forearm around his neck, bearing down with all his weight. The man strangled there, tightly bound in Steve’s grip. Steve threw him down and moved on.

The champion he’d begun with--the man he’d almost killed, was no longer his opponent. Steve watched as he ran a second gladiator through the throat with just one hand around the blade, his other dangling uselessly from his side. He killed the Akellior warrior instantly and mercifully. Steve caught his eye for a moment, nodded his thanks, then ran towards the last gladiator still standing.

They reached him together. Steve fell on top, holding him facedown in the mud and the Champion of House Akellior brought his blade down, severing the man’s head from his body and blood splashed up, covering them both. He stood and nodded to Steve once then spoke quietly. “Tell my brothers I am sorry. For Kael.” He pulled a small knife from under his armor and held it to his own throat. Steve watched his eyes flicker for one moment of indescision and fear. Then, he quickly pulled it across the tender skin. The Champion fell to the ground, blood spurting from his neck.

Steve knelt down, quietly, somberly. He waited for the man to gasp out his last, pained breaths. Waited for the body to still. The rain showered them both, a cleansing torrent of nature, and he reached across and smoothed the man’s brow, closing his wide eyes. “For Kael,” he whispered. Then he pulled the man’s blade up and came to his feet, turning out to the silent arena and looking towards the podium.

“I am the Beast of Kael, and I claim my victory. For House Barnes.” He raised the sword in the air, and the crowd erupted.


	11. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****************Chapter 10 Warnings** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
> 
> All the consensual sex, hooray!
> 
> ***

The waiting was interminable.

Bucky paced back and forth along the cold stone of his chambers. The loud cheer of the arena still clogged his senses as he walked, unable to detach himself from the final scene.

_Steve stumbled from the pit as the Lliadan soldiers entered. They dragged the bodies from the sand, leaving gruesome rivets behind. Bucky watched his people stand, cheering, celebrating, shouting. The word **beast** exploded into the air, over and over as they chanted. He gripped his seat, the mantra hitting and overpowering everything else._

_The rain fell harder, flooding the pit below and washing away the evidence of the grisly fight. Marcus walked over and stood to his right. He spoke, as Bucky watched the sand slosh in dirty waves. He held himself straight, eyes fixed only on the arena, and ignored every word._

_The benches emptied. He watched each podium, each House section. He watched for every member of the high houses to exit. They lingered, and spoke to one another, unsure of what had just played out under their noses. Some attempted to reach him and speak, but he rebuffed and ignored all._

The waiting was interminable.

_He watched them all leave, then stood, cold and impartial and made his way back to the manse, desperately trying to calm the shaking of his hands._

His mother would call a meeting of the heads, and she would stand at the center of the Barnes House enclave and smile as though the entire event were perfectly manipulated by their house. They won. They always won. You do not attempt to usurp the Barnes family. He’d have to be present.

He would speak first--he was sure of it. She would rip him from his position, leave him powerless in his own home, but first he would need to keep up the farce that the entire event was perfectly calculated and his doing. Then Messalina would take over and make some excuse for his stepping down. She would claim control as his father prepared the armies for battle. And Bucky would become a pointless movable game piece, powerless to effect any change at all.

There was a sound out in the hallway and Bucky looked up, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. He waited, one moment, and then two. Nothing happened, no one entered. Just a minor disturbance in the running of the household.

The waiting was interminable.

He needed to speak, to say something. He wandered into his bedchamber and up to the fireplace. Put his fingers there, in that hateful spot, and traced the etchings. He couldn’t allow himself to sink so low, he couldn’t allow the anxiety to set in and manipulate him again.

He wanted to apologize but he couldn’t. Steve was his slave. His gladiator. Born to fight.

_“I was never supposed to be a warrior” he said..._

He sunk into the _cleachtadh_ , letting the slow movements calm him and center his racing mind. He closed his eyes and moved from _Craobh_ to _Urnaigh_ and back again. Over and over he repeated the motion, until his muscles burned with strain and his eyes stung with exhaustion.

Bits and fragments of memory floated through his subconscious despite his attempts to clear his mind. The heat of the afternoon sun at his back. The camaraderie of men, the pull and desire to be a member of a brotherhood again. The gladiators cheering him, guffawing him, laughing at him and then with him as he practiced the foreign exercise meticulously. They’d always allowed him that--a chance, a moment to shuck off his outer layer and forget his station, instead sinking into sweat and sore muscle.

He moved by instinct now, no longer impossibly staccato in his movements, but instead one fluid line of motion. He danced until he wanted to scream under the strain. The room darkened as the sun sank behind the distant mountains and still he pushed his arms forward, his knees down, his hands slicing through invisible pressure.

The heavy knock at the door came hours later, as the moon crested above the clouds.

Steve listened at the door, quiet and controlled. He heard nothing. No murmuring, no shuffle of footsteps. Not even the whisper of weight from another body nearby. He knocked again, then set himself and pushed in.

Bucky straightened from a kneeling position, and came to his feet. He was dressed in only a white linen undershirt that had come untucked from his leggings. His skin glistened with a damp sheen of sweat, and his eyes were red from exhaustion. Steve stopped at the front of the chamber, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind him and close with a huff of sound. They watched each other, neither willing to break the heavy silence.

“You’re still wet.” It was Steve who spoke first, unsure and uneasy. He no longer knew of his role here, of what he was meant to do or say. “It stopped raining hours ago.”

“Oh?” Bucky seemed to push the air out from his chapped lips. He looked so impossibly young, so impossibly lonely. Steve felt a pulling in his chest and held himself as still as possible, trying not to destroy the vulnerability of the moment. The very air about him seemed to shimmer with the tension of it.

“You’re alright then? Your family–” Steve stopped as Bucky pushed forward. Their lips met. He could feel the desperate need from the younger man and the moment became something dangerous. This was no longer a game of slave and master. Somewhere, somehow, something critical had changed and he no longer knew what rules to follow. He pressed closer and their bodies touched--Bucky reached a hand around Steve’s neck and pulled him even closer still. Steve pressed into the touch and felt Bucky inhale, drawing his breath away.

His eyes shot open, and he pushed away, feeling Bucky’s hand drop from the back of his neck. His skin tingled there for a moment, desperate at the loss of touch, but he stiffened and knelt down, forcing his eyes to the ground. Steve swallowed, a thick swollen thing. “What would you have me do for you, master?”

There was silence then, and it was ceaseless in its torment. Steve fought the desire to look up, to gauge a reaction. Bucky stood over him, and he could almost feel his breath at the back of his neck.

“Please.” The plea was hushed and Steve shivered as Bucky stepped even closer. “Don’t call me that. Please.” Bucky bent down then, and reached forward taking Steve’s hand. “I know I don’t deserve anything from you right now. Or ever. But please,...” his voice broke. Steve watched him swallow and then straighten. “Rise.” He spoke with confidence now, and Steve recognized it as his command voice. It was incredible how quickly he could snap back into that character--because that is all it was. A character Bucky’ played, every day and every night.

 _He’s Lliadan. He’s not to be trusted._ Steve didn’t know what those words meant anymore. He didn’t know anything but anger, and betrayal and the underlying hot wave of shame that he barely kept his head above.

This wasn’t his battle. It wasn’t his fight. He’d already lost everything and had suffered being dragged about on a leash and collar--paraded for his enemies and used for their entertainment and now? Now he was kneeling in a dark room in the middle of the night and all he wanted to do was rip free the chafing bit of leather from around his neck.

All he wanted to do reach out and smooth the wet curls from Bucky’s brow.

Bucky shuffled above him for a moment, then spoke again. “I said--”

And Steve was finished with it. He sprang to his feet, barely registering the surprise in Bucky’s eyes when he shoved forward. He pinned Bucky against the wall and smashed their lips together, pressing against the man and smelling the rain and the sweat and sweetness soaked into the linen undershirt that Bucky wore.

Steve drew his head back and threaded his fingers through Bucky’s hair, through the dark curls and tangles. He pulled, tilting Bucky’s head sharply to the side, and kissed down his jaw, down the tender flesh at his neck and all the way to his shoulder. Bucky pulled against Steve’s hold, but Steve refused to ease the pressure, and Bucky quieted, falling silent and pliant in Steve’s grip. Steve paused at Bucky’s collarbone, tracing his tongue along the sensitive skin and Bucky moaned once through parted lips, then quieted immediately. Steve thrust against him, already rock hard with desire, and Bucky just closed his eyes, the tension clear in his face.

Steve fell back, panting. “Isn’t this what you want? What you always want? A gladiator stud to mount you?” The words tumbled from his lips, sharper than any blade. He saw them hit Bucky--watched his entire body crumple as though struck by the blunt impact.

“I wanted to feel.”

Steve shoved forward, pinning Bucky against the wall again. His ribs ached under the heavy bandages but he refused to stop now. “I’m sick of this. I’m not your beast, your toy, your playing piece!” He thrust his forearm against Bucky’s neck and held him there. He watched Bucky’s face turn red for lack of air, watched his lips move, sucking at nothing. Bucky didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t try to push Steve off, or struggle. He locked eyes with Steve, sorrow woven through the whole of his face. There was the barest wisp of gold threading through the deep brown of his eyes. Steve had never noticed.

It was beautiful.

He let go, and Bucky gasped, doubling over against the wall. “I’m not your beast,” Steve reiterated, feeling small and helpless. He wiped at his eyes and his hand came away red; the earlier blow to the brow had opened again.

Bucky straightened slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you fight. You told me you didn’t want to fight.”

Bucky had been in _Urnaigh_ when Steve had entered--Prayer pose. His forms were getting better. He must be practicing, more than just in the Ludus training grounds. It still needed work, but it was clean now. Pure. Kaelish. No Lliadan should know these forms so intimately, yet Steve itched to place his hands on Bucky’s, to guide him slowly through the motions and feel the muscles of his back ripple in response to his touch.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop speaking.” Steve’s hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to control the movement.

“Alright.” Bucky stepped forward. He reached out, his hand tracing gently down the side of Steve’s face. His fingertips outlined Steve’s eye, his cheek, traveled down his jaw. Bucky pressed a finger against Steve’s lips, pausing. Then he leaned in and whispered, every so softly, “may I touch you?”

Steve’s body reacted to those words and he nodded, the barest hint of assent. Bucky traced down his chest, down the bandaging around his ribs, and further, stopping for a moment to dance lightly along the muscles of his abdomen. Steve held his breath, afraid the rise of his chest would interrupt, desperate for the moment to continue.. Deep longing stirred within him--a tugging in his chest that was so incredibly exquisite. Everything around him slowed. Even the air itself exhaled and thickened around them as Bucky’s fingers pushed under the waistband of Steve’s leggings and flickered down to his inner thigh, then across. Steve pressed against him, groaning in pleasure as Bucky stroked once across his cock.

“What do you like?” The murmured words seemed impossibly loud in the chambers, and Steve jerked for a moment, unsure of what was expected of him.

“What would you like?” Bucky ammended, and Steve turned his head, met Bucky’s lips with his own. Bucky pressed against him, his cock so hard against him, and the urge to take him, to be inside him, was impossible to ignore.. Steve pulled back for one moment, just the smallest pause, and breathed.

“You.”

Bucky led Steve back into his bedchambers, back to the familiar mattress and blankets. He kept his hand on Steve’s the entire walk and though it was only a few moments, it felt like centuries--an intoxicating tenderness flowing between them.

He watched Steve shiver once as he withdrew his hand, then undid the laces at his own throat, slowly stripping his undershirt off. Steve’s eyes burned a brilliant blue and Bucky threaded his fingers delicately underneath the waistband of his leggings and pushed them down, stepping free. He was naked now, his golden skin bare and reflecting in the moonlight. Steve stilled, the soft huff of his breathing his only movement.

They stood like that as time condensed around them. Bucky watched Steve swallow--watched the motion from his mouth to throat as the muscles rippled. A slight breeze blew through the open window of the bedchamber and he saw goosebumps rise on Steve’s chest--watched the dusty pink of his nipples harden in the chill.

Bucky stepped forward and teased his fingers around the rosy buds. Steve swallowed again, and Bucky leaned in, mouthing at his throat. Steve’s moans vibrated against his lips.

Bucky looked up to see Steve arch his head back and close his eyes. “I want to taste you.” They was so barren, these words that escaped his mouth. So stark against the contrast of Steve’s soft skin.

Steve didn’t look at him, just growled, a small helpless thing, and murmured, “please.”

Bucky knelt down, his knees brushing against the cold, hard stone of the floor. He took Steve into his mouth gently at first, barely mouthing over the tip. Steve gasped at the soft touch and grabbed at Bucky’s shoulders, his nails scratching over the warm skin. Bucky reciprocated, grasping at Steve’s hips and drawing him closer.

Bucky looked up, just once. Steve’s eyes were still screwed shut. A smile bloomed inside his chest, and Bucky leaned forward once more, tonguing around the slit, carefully, delicately. He couldn’t hold back. He swallowed him whole, desperate for more, desperate to taste every inch. Steve quivered underneath Bucky’s mouth like a plucked string. Bucky pulled back and took a moment to explore the skin around Steve’s thighs and the tight silky flesh of his abdomen. He licked and kissed everywhere around his cock, tasting sweat, sweetness, _Steve_.

Steve moved his hand, fisting it deep into Bucky’s curls. “Please,” he murmured again. “Please. I want…”

“What do you want?” Bucky spoke against Steve’s belly, breathing in the scents of the day and forcing his hands to stay still around Steve’s hips, to not reach for his own cock. The wait of it was already too much. Bucky wanted to touch himself, to stroke himself to completion as he pulled Steve’s own orgasm from his body and tasted every bit. He steeled himself and repeated the words, even softer now. “What do you want?”

“Let me come inside of you.” Steve’s eyes were still closed, and Bucky saw the flush of his skin even in the delicate moonlight of the room. “I want to come inside of you.”

“Yes,” Bucky breathed, letting go of Steve’s hips and standing. “Yes.”

Steve pushed him backwards to the bed, and Bucky made to turn over on his stomach, readying himself for their usual position. Steve reached out and cupped his hand around Bucky’s chin.

“I want to see your eyes.”

His lips barely moved, and Bucky felt a tremor pass from his chest to his thighs. “I…”

“Trust me,” Steve barely whispered and Bucky did. He leaned backwards, watching the bright blue, and lost himself in the motion of Steve’s hips.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in each others flesh, Bucky’s arm across Steve’s chest, and his face buried in Steve’s neck. He nuzzled at the space between his ear and collarbone. Steve tried to relax, tried to revel in the softness of his flesh, in the closeness and comfort.

He couldn’t. The enormity of what he had done lay like a weight upon his heart, stifling the blood flow. He no longer knew the rules of the game.

His fingers traced along the back of Bucky’s shoulder, stepping over scarred muscle and feeling their way down the puckered flesh. Bucky tensed under him, but didn’t move. “How did it happen?” Steve’s voice echoed in the dark room, the question heavy between them.

Bucky rolled over, pulling his arm away.The sudden loss of warmth tore at him as surely as if Bucky had stripped the flesh from his chest. He watched Bucky sit up and run his fingers through his hair, smoothing out the tangles before standing and walking back to the larger chamber. He bent down to gather his clothing so passionately shed just hours ago, and he shrugged back into the leggings and undershirt, mumbling under his breath. “I shouldn’t have made you fight. You were right.”

“Why did you, then?” Steve sat up and leaned forward, his forearms propped on his bare knees. “You’re smarter than this. Why do you participate? Why’d you agree to the charade in the first place?” He looked down at his fingers and spoke again, quieter this time. “Why did you trust Marcus?”

“He’s my best friend.” Bucky walked back into the bedroom and sat next to Steve, just close enough that Steve could feel the promise of touch.

“He’s playing at a much larger game than you.”

“Don’t lecture me on Lliadan politics, Steve. I’ve grown up here. I know very well how the game is played.” Bucky clenched his hands between his legs.

“You can’t trust them. You’re too naive and they will play you ever single time.”

Bucky stood, looking down on Steve. He took a breath and Steve watched as the shell of unease seemed to crack and fall like broken pottery, leaving pure Lliadan imperiousness in it’s place. “You don’t know of what you speak. You are a Kaelish rebel who failed bitterly at leading a barbarian people to freedom. Now you are my slave. I owe you nothing. Marcus did what he did for his family. I misjudged the situation and I will pay later for my folly. But know this. I am not stupid. I am not ignorant of what battles the high houses fight from day to day and I am most certainly not naive.” Bucky stepped back and motioned at the pile of cloth on the floor--Steve’s clothing.

“You’re finished with me then?” Steve called out. He tried to swallow the anger and remorse that threatened to overtake him. Bucky regarded him silently, pain etched in to his face. Steve fisted the blankets underneath him and he clenched his eyes closed. “You can’t pretend this was nothing. This wasn’t something between a master and his slave. This is bigger than that–”

“Are you going to report me to my father?”

Steve gaped at him. “I…”

“It’s fine.” Bucky stared at him. “I know how his mind works. And how little trust he has for me. Feel free to run back to him now--I’m sure the leash pulls tight.”

“It’s not like that.” Steve stood now, still naked. “You act as though I have a choice.”

Bucky stood silently, regarding him with some emotion that Steve couldn’t quite pin down. Something akin to pity.

All of the anger and hate and helplessness from the entire day came crashing down around Steve. “You have a choice. You had a choice. I didn’t want to fight but _you_ forced me into that pit to kill for your family. You manipulated and plotted like the good little Liadan you are. Don’t act as though you are different, as though you are my moral superior and I owe you something.” He pushed into Bucky’s space, forcing him back a step.

“It’s my _family_ , Steve. I did it for my family…”

“You did it to save your skin. You are no different from Marcus. No different your murderous, scheming father.”

“Do _not_ ,” Bucky hissed. “My father is an honorable man.”

“Your father cut down my men as they kneeled beside me. And then, because it was not enough, because it will _never_ be enough, he let his men rape my wife and beat her. He let them march her out in front of me, fresh blood still streaming from her thighs. And it still wasn’t good enough. He killed her just far enough from me that I couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t touch her as the light bled from her eyes.” Steve gulped in air, his chest heaving with emotion. “You call my people barbarians? Look with your eyes, Bucky. Look in front of you. Look at your own face in the mirror.”

His head felt heavy with the admission, and he hated himself for letting the emotion spill--he wished more than anything to take it back. He didn’t want his wife involved in this, in whatever _this_ was, whatever new arena they’d moved onto now. _He didn’t know the rules_.

He wanted to touch Bucky again and he hated himself for even thinking it, for imagining the feel of his hair whispering across his chest.

Bucky looked down. “He would never. He is an honorable man and he would never, not after...” he swallowed and looked sick. “You should leave.”

“To report to your father, you mean.” The moon emerged from behind the clouds and bathed the room in it’s muted glow and Steve tried to calm his breathing and center himself once more.

“Tell him what you need to. I’ve already been stripped of my position in my house. It doesn’t matter any longer.”

“It’s not my choice.”

“I know.” Bucky spoke simply now, all anger gone from his voice as though it had never been. He raised his arm to rub at his shoulder and Steve remembered the feel of the new skin there, woven and knit together in angry red. “Tread carefully. You’ve galvanized the slaves. He will not be pleased.”

“You speak the words, yet do nothing.”

“I’m not what you think I should be.”

Steve lingered still, imagining a different timeline where they lay in each other’s embrace and didn’t move, didn’t speak. He imagined the sun rising, lighting on their limbs and fingers. He imagined a kiss in daylight, outside of everything.

“You are my slave. It is nothing more.”

The moment shattered--it would never come to fruition. Steve nodded and forced himself to bow. The bandages about his waist bit into his skin as his ribs protested. His entire body ached. “I assume I have your leave to go.” He phrased it flatly, no question mark at all.

“You may leave.”

Steve brushed past and Bucky didn’t move, still as a statue, still as though he wasn’t even there.


	12. 11

_They were a days ride from the village when he noticed the signs. The churned dirt, worn down to hard clay, the bent and trampled wheat fields that lined the small road. He urged the men faster, urged them to ride harder with a sick feeling in his gut._

_“We can’t carry the wounded at this pace, Mabakai!”_

_He nodded his agreement and barked orders to the men in back. “Stay with the sick and injured. Ride slowly, but steadily. Danairus, you take command. Injeru and Barak-han, we ride ahead!”_

_They’d been gone from the camp for two weeks now--the warriors, the medics, the shamans. The Lliadans had done the unthinkable and crossed the Rhiud into Hezarad Territory, attacking the city center. Mabakai’s camp was still far enough south to not be in danger. It was small enough that when the Northern Hezarad Trade was attacked, they didn’t hesitate one moment to send all the help they could without worry for their own tribe. The Lliadan’s didn’t care about their existence. They didn’t want anything from them. Hezarad camps had nothing to give. They were nomadic people, and would move their village again as the season changed, further south, pressing away from the seemingly endless war._

_They attacked the Trade because it was a powerful city center, on the banks of the Rhiud. It was notorious for its powerful trading allies around the world, and was famous for its shipping port. The Trade had contacts with the Hezaran people around all of Abrelkar._

_The Lliadan’s didn’t care about the Hezarans. They just wanted control of a major port._

_It was a grievous miscalculation on Mabakai’s part. He’d underestimated the Lliadan lust for dominance._

_He rode hard for hours, Injeru and Barak-han right at his sides. They smelled it before they laid eyes on anything._

_Burned meat. Fire. Smoke._

_The camp was destroyed. As they rode up, Mabakai could hear the thin sounds of wailing, a baby squalling for his mother’s breast. Ash and dust coated everything. Mabakai drew up and threw himself from his horse, laying a comforting palm along his flank and whispering in his ear. The animal quieted and stilled, waiting patiently for his master._

_Mabakai motioned for Injeru and Barak-han to each circle the camp. Mabakai walked down the middle._

_Bodies lay everywhere. As he walked he picked through the remnants of his home, stomping on still burning embers, waving at the feasting flies. He held his breath to the count of five, and let it out to the count of ten, trying to calm the waves of panic, trying to steady his thoughts and act clearly, act as a warrior should. He picked his way through belongings, scattered cloth, fallen tents, looking for survivors, looking for anyone,_

_looking for his wife and daughter._

_There were few. They wouldn’t speak to him, they picked amongst the rubble themselves, as though deaf to the chaos that surrounded them. They acted as though they didn’t know him._

_He found Amara-t’i, the apprentice storykeeper . She knelt in the hot mud gripping the hand of a dead child and he pulled at her, led her away._

_There were few others; all silent. They were found pawing through wreckage, looking for relatives, belongings, anything that spoke of home. He yelled for his family. He yelled at the survivors. He screamed until his voice broke and then he sobbed, trying to get an answer, any answer._

_Why did they come here?_

_Why did they take them?_

_Where did they go?_

_His sobs fell on deaf ears and the wind carried the pleas away, dancing through broken wheat._

__

“It’s begun.”

Mabakai started and looked up from his bowl. He brought the spoon to his mouth slowly and scowled in dismay at the taste of cold soup. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I repeated myself more than a few times. Hard to make a dramatic entrance when your audience is snoring.” Steve pulled out a chair and threw his body into it, causing the table to shake, and the cold soup to slop over the side of the bowl.

Mabakai frowned and pushed the bowl away. “Not asleep. Thinking.”

Steve reached over and snatched the spoon Mabakai’s grasp, then pulled the bowl towards himself and ate. “It’s begun. This thing you wanted. The people watch me in the streets and they no longer look away. They salute.” He paused in his demolishing of Mabakai’s lunch for a moment to thump his chest twice. “It’s as you said. They are ready.”

“Mm. And how does your Lliadan feel about such displays?”

“My _Lliadan_ seems content to wallow in his rooms and feel sorry for himself until the end of times.”

Mabakai watched Steve carefully, noting the inflection and heaviness of his words. “You play a dangerous game here, Steve.”

Steve picked up the bowl and tipped it towards his mouth, forgoing the wooden utensil completely. “I play the game you asked me to. Nothing more.” He finished the bowl in two swallows and put it back on the table, empty.

Mabakai shrugged and traced at a whirl in the wood of the surface, trying to banish the fleeting memories of home and focus in on the heat of the day, of the sincerity of the man before him. “And his father? The man who truly owns us? How does he feel about these displays?”

“He’s said nothing. But I’m not foolish enough to think that will hold.” Steve sighed and his head dropped into his hands--fingers grasping at the thick blond hair. “I don’t know what to do. I have their attention. They all watch me--slaves and Lliadans alike. What is next? How do we move without getting more innocents killed? The General leaves at the head of the army in six weeks time and I can’t let it happen. I can’t just sit here and wait for more of my people to die, Mabakai!”

“Innocents are going to be killed. You are going to be the cause of it. More Kaels will die.”

“You fill me with divine inspiration,” Steve said dryly.

Mabakai sighed. “I am not always the joyous and optimistic sidekick who is here to help the hero save the day. This is not the story with the happy ending that your mother told you as you fell asleep by the fire. We are not heroes, and we are not saints. We have killed, and we will kill, and innocents will fall because of our actions. We make our choices from where we kneel buried in the earth with the weight of the dark upon us. But the dark is not all evil. You see it already with your Lliadan, with Bucky. I can see it in your eyes when you talk about him. They are not all tyrants.”

Steve stood from the table in one motion and strode towards the door.

“Steve. I don’t say this lightly. They are not all evil and you see it as well as I do. Innocents will die no matter what choice you make. Decide how far you are willing to go.” Mabakai watched Steve stop, and turn. He bent, and ran his fingers along the dirt at his feet, then rose watching it trickle from between his calloused fingertips.

“You know why I’m here. My people will _not_ be slaves.”

Mabakai nodded once. “Then this is where we begin an uprising.”

The weight of his words hung heavy between them.

Bucky walked the sparkling paths watching mothers hang linens on long white lines while children ran under foot. He passed by an old man bent over at the pavement digging an aul into the cracks and pulling out each weed leaving only room for the beautiful white and red blooms. A group of women moved past him--they sang an off key verse of some tune as they linked arms.

The sun shone and the flowers turned their faces to the shining rays, soaking in joy, but even the light breeze seemed to weigh him down. The taste of impending war lay thick with the winds.

All the men were gone. All the boys, the sons, the husbands, the fathers were stationed at the barracks, soon to leave Lliad City. Gone.

Bucky knew they were still nearby--still on the outskirts of town, able to walk home for a warm meal and embrace--but war was coming and it weighed heavy on his shoulders. In six weeks time, they would leave; marching for the hills and for the bands of Kaelish rebels that sat on the edge of Lliadan territory. It was a victory that was all but assured, but what would it cost his people?

Bucky watched a young mother hoist a toddler on to her hip and press a the knuckle of her forefinger into the child’s mouth, calming his cries. How many children would grow up without families because of this war? How many mothers would go hungry trying to ration enough food for their children to eat?

His thoughts turned to the Kaelish families left behind. The sick, the starving, the homeless. He closed his eyes and saw Steve as he was in the arena, screaming as he killed his own men.

He didn’t want to think of Steve. He didn’t want to remember the last night they had spent together--a full week ago now. Every moment since was weighted with indecision.

At least here, the Empire would provide. Bucky knew this instinctively, as well as he knew the callouses etched into his fingertips from his own blade. The Lliadan army would push and push and for every league gained, the Empire would celebrate. They would crown war heroes, gift food and land and slaves to the generals whose armies proved themselves with the most victories. The generals responsible for the annihilation of cultures.

It was, after all, how his own family had gained their power.

He frowned and walked past the last house in a long line of perfect houses and found himself in the center of the pathway where a large fountain stood, burbling clear water and sparkling in the sunlight. None of the villagers were there now--too many where shopping at the market, or visiting the soldiers during meal time. Bucky sat on the ledge and dipped his left hand down, running his fingers through the cool, clear liquid. Tiny red fish darted back and forth around his fingertips and he smiled at the sensation.

Lliad City was a city of incredible beauty and richness, but it was built upon the backs of their neighbors. What kind of people walked out of their painted wooden doors, through their pristine gardens and down that sparkling rock path only to watch as members of their own race battled each other in barbaric ritual to the death?

He heard a splash behind him and cool wetness soaked into the back of his shirt as he turned.

“I’m so sorry!” A young servant girl stood behind him, giggling as she lowered the pail into the fountain a second time.

Bucky raised a hand to wipe the water from his neck. He grinned in response, about to say something more, when she saw at the crest embroidered on his tunic and gasped.

“Oh!” It was a dismayed sort of sound, an exhale of terror, and she immediately sank to her knees, prostrating herself in front of him. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I apologize. Please forgive me, I wasn’t thinking, or watching where….I wasn’t...” her words trailed off as she kneeled with her face pressed into the dirt.

Bucky stood, aghast for a moment. “It’s alright! It’s fine--I was hot anyway.”

She refused to stand.

He walked closer and set his hand gently on her shoulder. “I had my hand in the water already. I was already wet. It’s alright.”

She looked up at him carefully, studying his eyes. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. I wasn’t expecting someone like you…” Her words drifted off as she studied him. “Why are you here?” She looked back to the ground quickly, as though shocked by her own presumptuousness.

“I was just walking.” Bucky found himself talking, speaking in a rhythmic sort of beat, trying to lead her up from the ground. “My feet led me here, and the fountain is so beautiful. The water, it makes such a musical sound…” He knelt down beside her and found himself tracing characters in the dirt, feeling each grain against his skin. The world was so full of wonder, yet a girl lay at his feet because she was so terrified at the wrath of his family for merely splashing the first son with water.

“It’s alright.” He repeated himself, spoke then of the day, of the things he’d seen. Of the many faces of Lliad who he watched. Of the beauty of their land.

He didn’t speak of war, of fighting, of brutality. She pushed up and wiped at the tears on her olive skin, leaving tracks of mud in their place. She watched him and listened and nodded along to his words as he spoke of their ancient histories--of honor and loyalty and men who didn’t need to kill other men for glory.

The sun had fallen even farther in the sky when she finally spoke again, softly but determined. “Do you know the gladiators?”

Bucky watched the heady excitement that filled her eyes--the buzz of new adrenaline that filled her body. He could see her thrumming with anticipation. He nodded.

“The one they call the Beast?”

He nodded again, slower this time. She had already risen to her feet. She walked over, gracefully as bare feet gripped the dirt beneath her. She bent down, embraced him, and whispered softly in his ear.

“Tell him that we are waiting.”

__

Bucky went to the ludus.

The sun was the barest sliver on the horizon and the evening chill was setting in, but he made his way to the center of the gladiator practice arena and picked up a heavy wooden practice blade. He stripped off his tunic and boots, and stood in the white sand in nothing but leggings, letting the breeze kiss the bare skin of his back. He bound his hair back in the sort of warrior tail that he used to wear. Back when he was a leader of his people. Back when he was still a champion of the Barnes house.

Bucky raised the sword in his left hand, slowly and surely, then sliced down in front of him, twirling once, then swinging it through towards the left, completing the move. His scarred shoulder screamed out at him and he drank in the pain. He settled once more and slowly raised the sword again. He sliced down, twirled, swung through. Settled. Raised it again. Sliced, twirled, swung. Again. Again. Again.

He was alone on the field, but the gladiators trickled out of the building, watching the General’s son in the center of their arena. He didn’t notice. He raised the sword, sliced down, twirled, swung. He was desperate for contact, desperate to feel something besides guilt and nausea and the horrible doubt that plagued his thoughts.

His shoulder screamed and he gasped aloud in pain but still didn’t stop. Refused to stop.

“Bucky!”

_A voice swirled on the wind, insidious in its reach, a reminder of his ultimate betrayal._

Slice up, cut down,swing. _Memories danced over his skin, a hand holding a knife, stabbing it through his shoulder over and over. The ghostly memory of the blade pulling down, slicing through thick muscles. His screams ripped through his chest…_

“Bucky!”

The dam broke, the flood waters came and still he thrust up, sliced down, spun around, refusing to reach for that hand. Refusing to reach for blue.

“Stop! Bucky!”

He saw Steve in the distance, heard him call, and he could no longer reconcile what was real and what was memory.

He fell.

Steve and Dovagni carried Bucky between them back to the kitchen area of the Ludus. They leaned him back against the wall and Steve watched him slide down the exposed brick of the wall.

“Does he need...should I get the guards or something?” Dovagni turned to Steve, looking utterly bemused.

“No. He’s fine.”

“But...we should let someone know, right? That he collapsed? I mean...they won’t come after us will they? Blame us?” Steve shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know why he’s here, Dovagni…”

“But you’re his...I mean...he’s your--”

“I own all of you.”

Steve and Dovagni jumped at the sound of Bucky’s hoarse voice, grating up from his place on the floor.

“You all belong to the Barnes family. I am a Barnes. Ergo I own you. They won’t come after you.” He winced as he shifted up the slightest amount. “I need to speak with Steve. You may leave.”

Dovagni turned towards Bucky, then back to Steve who shrugged once more. “I…” Dovagni threw his hands up in exasperation. “As long as I’m not the one on the whipping block, I don’t give a damn.”

Steve watched him walk through the curtain, back out into the yard, before turning back to Bucky. He crossed his arms and watched. Waited. Bucky looked pale and drawn. His lips were pressed together and every muscle of his body pulled taut as though even breathing pained him. Steve longed to draw him up into his arms and bury his nose in his hair. Instead he waited.

Bucky finally sighed as the last of the footsteps faded away. “Thank you.”

“For dragging you out of the middle of a slave arena? Interesting choice of a place to make a stand.”

“I wasn’t making a stand.” Bucky watched him, waiting for something, waiting for him to break down first.

Steve couldn’t help but take the bait. “You look like shit.”

Bucky grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Appreciated, slave.”

Steve studied him a moment more, watched the way he held his body tightly against the wall, with his legs splayed in front of him. “Are you hurt?”

“No more than usual.”

“You’re a fucking lousy liar.” Steve bent down and reached his fingers out, danced along the flesh of Bucky’s arm. He ignored the tightening in his chest at the touch, instead closed his eyes and focused on finding the pain. His fingers felt their way over familiar scarred flesh, and once again he focused the warmth of his body into the muscles.

Bucky relaxed into his touch, and his weight sunk further down as some of the tension dissipated. “Why were you out there?”

“I wanted to fight. I wanted to feel.” Bucky spoke quietly but delivered each syllable as though it were something practiced.

“I’ve heard that line before. I believe you delivered it directly before you did something completely inane.”

Bucky looked up at him, eyes narrowing. “Remember who you speak to.”

“I always remember.” Steve spoke softer this time, his breath impossibly close to Bucky’s skin. He watched the tiny hairs dance up on his shoulder, the pinprick of goosebumps raise in response.

Bucky looked away again and pulled his arm toward him. Steve knew better than to push more. He sank back to the ground and sat across from his master. “Everyone is gone now. You needed to tell me something?”

Silence again. Steve wanted to scream with it, pound his fists into the dirt, run in circles. He waited patiently, breathing in steady increments.

Bucky swallowed and spoke again, thickly. “Something is happening.”

“Like your father leading your people to extinguish my own? This is not news to me.”

“You know what I speak of. Something is happening with the slaves. With you.”

Steve watched Bucky pull his arm in towards himself and rub at the skin. The moonlight faded for a moment as clouds overtook the night sky, and Bucky’s face fell into darkness. Steve spoke cautiously. “Yes. You’ve said as much before.”

“It grows larger. Larger than you realize.”

Steve laughed. The sound pierced the room, and Bucky twitched in surprise. “I think you don’t truly know me at all, boy.” He let the echo fade, let the room fade back into steady silence, the only sound the shared beating of two hearts. “What will _you_ do?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky pressed his fingers to the dirt then lifted them, studying his fingertips.

“You can’t straddle both sides forever. Sooner or later you will capsize and be washed away.”

“One side is my family.”

Steve watched the internal conflict playing across Bucky’s fine features. He watched the hard planes of Bucky’s chest rise and fall in the darkness--a sheen of sweat still coating his smooth skin from his exertions. His gaze traveled the distance between navel and neck, taking in each tangle of spidery blue veins at his throat, each ripple of finely honed muscle at his chest. Steve swallowed, then looked away.

“I want to fight for you.”

The words fell like a blow on Steve’s shoulders as the enormity of the spoken verse lay between them. “It’s…” _Not your fight_. He swallowed again, trying desperately to calm the shaking of his hands. “You will lose everything.”

“I had nothing to begin with.”

“You have everything.” Steve extended a hand in front of himself, watching the tremor for a moment and breathing. Then he stretched forward and pressed his palm to Bucky’s beating heart. Their eyes met, and Steve felt drenched in the immensity of thousands of consequences playing out based upon this one moment.

“You need me. I can fight.”

“It’s not your fight.” This time the words did escape, though he flinched as he spoke them.

Bucky looked worn, but there was a flicker of fire that sparked in his eyes. “I can fight,” he repeated.

 _“There is a woman, near the head of a high family, who has been helping organize the house slaves,”_ Mabakai had said.

“You can help us. Give us information. Listen and learn and find out who is helping the slaves on the inside. Help them. But this?” Steve motioned to the window. The quiet murmur of amiable talk amongst the gladiators whispered in with the breeze. “This is _not_ your fight.” Steve watched the flame die out, the slow acceptance of this new place, a new order of things playing across Bucky’s features. He swallowed once, and Steve could see how much he desperately wanted to speak. The silence carried for a moment more, then was broken only by a single word.

“Alright,” Bucky whispered. “Alright.”

What had begun as a slow kind of growth, the steady push of a new bud emerging from fresh dirt, gained momentum. The buds had burst free. Steve walked the marketplace daily, and the slaves didn’t look away.

They saluted.

The gladiators no longer trained separately, no longer took their meals alone without conversation. They spoke now, they learned each others names and their once-guarded pasts. They sparred together, moving one step at a time, learning from weaknesses and strengths and forging new ideas.

Bucky called on him less frequently now. Steve would traverse the path up to the manse grounds and would knock heavily at the door, waiting as a good slave waits for his master. Then he would step in and the charade would fall.

They no longer slept together.

Instead they sat at a table as equals while Bucky listened to Steve tell tales of the Kaels. Steve spoke of their shamans and medicines and land. Of their people. They only spoke in Kaelish during these meetings--something Bucky insisted upon. His use of the language was rudimentary at best, but he was intelligent, and he picked it up quickly. Steve couldn’t help but be impressed by his willingness to learn, to set aside his regard for every Lliadan custom and instead soak up the culture of his enemy.

It was new and terrifyingly honest. Steve frequently pushed down his own desire to reach across the surface and take Bucky’s hand in his own--to press his weight into Bucky’s palm and imprint something, anything, a piece of himself. He was constantly on edge now, his fraying nerves wearing every moment as he wove this duplicitous web in full view of the General and the Lliadans. Bucky grounded him. Seeing him each day, so carefully forming Kaelish words with his mouth, so carefully tonguing the sounds and writing the letters on paper brought him hope for change and tolerance.

He should have known that it would never last.

It was a late evening when Bucky came--far past the hour that they normally met. He sought Steve at the ludus, a place Bucky had been specifically avoiding since the day three weeks past when he’d broken in front of the gladiators. Steve stood to dismiss the men around him as Bucky entered the building. He could already feel the tension in the air; it was a pungent thrill of electricity between them. Dovagni and Magnus got up from the table, their chairs scraping in the nighttime quiet. Mabakai refused to move and Steve eyed him once, then sat again in surrender.

Bucky was pacing at in front of them already, his fingers at his temples rubbing idly.

“What’s wrong?” Steve spoke carefully, nervous at the sudden change in demeanor. He’d met with Lucius already that afternoon and nothing seemed out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. Lucius spoke to him in cold, dispassionate script, and Steve’s words in response clattered against his back, unheard, uncared for. It was typical and hadn’t raised any alarm.

“We have a problem.”

Steve watched him carefully, noting the faint shake in Bucky’s hands--how tight his entire body was strung.

“He knows, Steve. My father knows something is taking place.” Bucky pulled at his hair, tugging the long strands straight, then letting them bounce away again. “He has to know,” he murmured, suddenly unsure again, scared.

“He doesn’t know anything.” Steve crossed the divide, coming to stand by Bucky at the window. He reached out a hand to his shoulder to steady him, but the electricity seemed to thrum even harder at his touch.

“He knows, Steve. He plots. He’s planning something, and it will all fall.”

“He doesn’t know,” Steve repeated. “I was with him earlier. I would have seen it. That flash in his eye, that smile at the corner of his mouth.” He swallowed and looked down, suddenly uncomfortably close to memories breaking through the carefully constructed wall he forced them behind. “I would have seen something.”

“You don’t know my father like I do. You never see, you never…” Bucky’s voice was raised now, his words edging on hysteria. A budding pressure formed around Steve’s ears, in his stomach.

“I know him better than you think–”

“You know nothing! You know nothing of what he is capable of, Steve! I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who to please anymore, what side I am supposed to be on–”

“I thought we covered this ground weeks ago.” A flicker of tension settled in Steve’s jaw and he tried to speak through roaring anger that flared in his gut. “You wanted to help. You are here. I don’t need your dramatics at every whisper or stare in your direction. If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been attempting to lead an entire race into open rebellion.”

“You have nothing to lose! You’ve nothing left!”

Steve stepped forward and punched him directly in the gut. Bucky doubled over, breathing heavily and swearing for a moment, grasping at the doorway, then he suddenly pushed up and charged Steve.

“Enough!” Mabakai finally yelled from the table, a scowl painted across his face. “Enough. You!” He stood, and motioned towards Bucky who was gaping at him as though he’d forgotten he’d been watching the entire argument unfold. “You come here with your petty, spoiled, pretty boy problems. We are warriors. We are in training to kill each other for your pleasure. We are now leading a rebellion against your family, against your emperor, against your people. You say you dislike the path your people have chosen? You say you want to fight?” He threw up his hands. “Your words are as useless as Hezaran cows, who stand next to a stream of water but will not drink unless it stills completely.”

“Mabakai,” Steve spoke warningly.

“Enough, Steve. Enough.” Mabakai spared a glance for Steve, but then turned the full force of his anger back to Bucky. “You Lliadan's are a pathetic tribe. I'm sick of your weary war, your constant quest for expansion and dominance over people's you will never have the empathy to understand. You war with your swords and your dicks,” he motioned crudely, “yet you _dare_ to call us barbaric? You rape our wives and enslave our children and still you don your white robes and meet to discuss the fate of the world at your command. I tire of this charade.”

“I am your master,” Bucky spoke, his eyes flashing, but Mabakai pushed forward and shoved him backwards.

“You may own me, but no Lliadan will ever control my spirit. You gave up any right to that title when you declared your wish to fight with us instead of against us. You are _no_ master of mine.”

“Mabakai!”

“No!” Mabakai turned to Steve now, his anger flooding over. “You! You let this continue! Use the resources we have been given and use his information! Use this uncertainty and willingness to betray his family. Use his sword, use his words, use his power and save our people. You are supposed to be fucking him, not falling in love with him.”

The words echoed through the small kitchen, loud and raucous. Steve flinched visibly, then drew himself and walked forward, his nose pressed against Mabakai's own. “You watch your words. You chose me. You found me, you molded me, you chose _me_ to lead us.”

“Then _lead_ us. He–”

“He will not fight for us.” Steve turned back, ignoring Mabakai completely and addressed Bucky. “What do you know?”

“He leaves in three weeks for Kael. There is going to be a big arena battle. A surprise.”

“We’ve fought in the arena before. We will come out unscathed again.” Steve heard Mabakai move behind him and he turned to watch him settle into his chair, his eyes still bright with anger. “Your father doesn’t know anything.”

“I pray you are right.” Bucky shifted forward and nodded once to Mabakai. “I’m sorry you don’t trust me. I understand.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, and Bucky looked once more at him, sadness and panic written plainly across his face.

“I won’t be able to do anything once I’m in the box, Steve. Please. Try to stay alive.”

He made as if to step forward and embrace Steve, but looked once more at Mabakai, then turned and walked out of the room, still tugging at his hair.


	13. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Chapter 12 Warnings***
> 
> Graphic Battle Scene

Bucky had been right. Nine gladiators were roused at the crack of dawn and led out single file to stand in the arena. No words were spoken, no orders given. The guards leading them unlocked the manacles at their wrists and the chain fell to the sandy ground with a soft punch of air. The gladiators were left, standing on the cold white sand as the sun rose.

They stood for hours, picking their way along the boundary, trailing bare fingers against the metal and brick. Steve fought to control his rising panic, to keep his mind intact and not give in to the screaming that clawed constantly at his mental walls. His men questioned him near constantly, and he bit back sharp retorts, trying to stay calm and reasonable.

The sun beat down as the Lliadans trickled into the stadium hours later and Steve was already breaking open, nerves raw and exposed.

They waited then as the noise in the arena grew to deafening levels. Steve stood at the head of a simple v-formation with the other nine chosen gladiators spread out behind him. They all watched the wrought iron doors with anticipation.

“Hold steady!” Steve’s voice rang out, even as he felt a shiver from his neck down his spine.

The seats filled and a prickle of sweat dripped from Steve’s hair to his eyelashes. He blinked it away.

A horrific screeching sound rang out as the doors finally began to open.

“Hold!” Steve wiped his palms against his thighs. They’d been given no weapons, no armor, nothing. The sun burned into his skin. The sand was hot against his bare feet.

The doors stopped, fully open.

The raucous noise of the stands faded to silence. Steve could hear shuffling and movement as they all strained to see into the depths of the pits.

He heard them their opponents before he saw them. The sound of crying and wailing traveled faster than bodies moved. The sounds leaked from the pits and Steve shifted from foot to foot.

Still they waited.

Dozens of pale, thin slaves pushed forward into the sunlight, herded by Lliadan soldiers. They were all armed with metal blades and shields. As they moved single file, they looked shocked and distraught to be in this horrific place, a part of a terrifying spectacle. The cries were no longer muted.

Steve heard mutterings that sounded like old Kaeldish, repeated prayers, cries for mercy. He forced himself to watch and look at every man and woman who stepped forward. He forced himself to watch their faces, to remember. The panic threatened to overtake him. He tried to find Bucky in the stands, but the sun was too bright, the chaos too much.

His men shuffled nervously behind him. and he heard questioning murmurs behind him.

“Hold! Steady!” He shouted, and in taking command again, the fog that had descended around his mind began to slowly clear.

The last of the new slaves trickled in, and the doors were pushed shut behind them with a loud bang.

Steve quieted the screaming in his head as he watched the men and women look around dazed., He looked back up to the podium again, and saw Bucky this time, sitting with Marcus and smiling. Steve scowled. __I won’t be able to do anything once I’m in the box__ , he’d said, and Steve understood, though it still felt hot, like a dagger through flesh.

Lucius stood and walked to the edge. “Our armies leave for Kael in twenty-one days!”

The crowd shrieked its enthusiasm, only quieting when the General held up a hand. “I look forward to leading Lliad once more to victory against the brutes, but today? Today we celebrate! I give you my ten strongest warriors!” He motioned down to the gladiators, and Steve slowly put his fist in the air with his men, feeling sick. The crowd cheered on. “And I give you twenty-one of the weakest slaves money can buy!”

One of the men suddenly broke free from the pack of slaves and ran back toward the iron doors. He pounded his fists as hard as he could, screaming and begging for life.

Lucius motioned to the guard and two men marched over. The first pulled a blade from a scabbard at his hip as the second held the squirming slave. The blade came down quickly and the head fell first with a loud thump. The body collapsed next.

There was silence, then Lucius spoke again. “I apologize. Twenty!”

The thumping of feet on the wooden stands began its crescendo. Steve closed his eyes, and tried to swallow the taste of bile.

The hand went up again, and feet quieted. “As you can see, I’ve armed my weakest. It’s only fair.” He smiled. “I task my competent warriors with this. Thin the herd. Show us who deserves to live, and who deserves to die.”

“Steve, what do you want us to do?” Mabakai hissed, but Steve ignored him.

Lucius bent down and brought up an enormous golden hourglass. He placed it on the ledge for all to see. “My gladiators have until the sand runs out to kill one slave. If they do not complete this task in the allotted time, the soldiers will kill two. We will continue for eight turns of the glass.” Lucius looked directly at Steve. “Your time starts now.”

The hourglass thumped against wood.

“Steve,” Mabakai was insistent..

Steve finally took his eyes off of the wretches in front of him and turned. The carefully practiced v-formation was crumbling as Epacus and Magnus pushed forward. Dovagni held with four other men, though he looked as sick as Steve felt.

“Hold!” Steve yelled. Magnus paused--reached out an arm and pulled Epacus back. They glared at Steve, fire in their eyes.

“Talk to me, Steve.” Mabakai was fierce, ready for battle, but his concern was evident.

“I need more time.” He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t cut out for these sadistic pleasures, he didn’t know where to push, where to hold, what to say–

“Steve!”

The man kept calling his name and he didn’t know what to say. They’d spent weeks, months preparing for arena fights. Training to perform, to inspire enthusiasm and excitement in a crowd without killing. They’d become new men, no longer eaten by the guild of the men they’d sentenced to death in the pits. They couldn’t kill innocent slaves. They __wouldn’t__. It would destroy the carefully constructed architecture of their camaraderie and trust.

The sands dropped and the weight of each grain weighed a dozen men.

“We can’t, Mabakai,” Steve whispered, even as a slave bent down and picked up a shiny blade from the sands beneath his feet. The man held it in front of him and it wobbled there--he didn’t even have the strength to hold it steady. “We can’t be responsible for this slaughter!”

“Will he kill them? You know this man. Will he do it?” Mabakai didn’t take his eyes off the slaves, but his voice pitched low enough for Steve to pick up his words. “Will he kill them all?”

“Steve! Orders?”

Steve turned and watched Dovagni holding back Epacus now, who was snarling and trying to push forward. Magnus had stilled but there was a blood lust in his eyes that was terrifyingly bare. His men were falling, the promise of death turning them back to beasts before his eyes.

“We need to obey.” It poured out of him, a subtle prayer, too silent to make a difference to any sort of God. Too silent to be an answer.

A group of four slaves banded and tentatively pushed forward, their swords held out in front cautiously. The sun beat down on Steve’s head, and he couldn’t swallow around the sand in his throat. “We need to obey him...he’ll do it.”

Steve turned to a clash behind him. Two other slaves had circled around the group and were attacking the rear. It was all the permission his men needed; the formation broke.

“Stop! No! Gladiators to me!”

Mabakai reached the pair of slaves first and struck out, around the weapons. He took one down with a solid blow to the nose, and the next with a roundhouse kick to the kidneys. He fell back into warrior’s stance for a moment, barely breathing hard, then jogged back.

“Steve, do we kill?”

“He’ll do it.” Steve still didn’t move, feet glued to the hot earth.

Mabakai stepped up to him, pushed into Steve’s space and reached out, grabbing at his hair and pulling his head forward. “You need to lead. They need to see you lead. Make a decision.”

More slaves gained courage now. They saw the gladiators standing in the center, unsure, undecided. A young man slashed out with his blade and nearly caught Epacus.

“Make a decision, Steve.”

Steve closed his eyes and breathed in. He could smell the sweat of the warrior holding him. “We obey.”

Mabakai stepped back sharply and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

The last drop of sand fell and the gong struck.

“Ah, too slow my warriors. Maybe next time.” Lucius signalled to the guards, and six of them bounded forward.

Steve turned back to the podium, arms up in plea. “No! We will obey! It is our kill!”

Slaves ran screaming from their executioners and Lucius ignored Steve’s words. The guards picked off the two slowest slaves and ran them both through the gut.

It was a slow, painful, death. The woman tried to crawl, clutching at spilling intestines. Steve closed his eyes. He tried not to watch, tried not to see his wife’s eyes misting over in death behind closed lids. The sounds of the pair dying continued even as Lucius turned the hourglass again.

“Time starts again. I can only suggest you try harder.”

Steve turned and faced his men. “We obey.”

“We are worse than they are if we obey. You’d see us become the monsters we attempt to overthrow.” Dovagni spoke quietly, but each word was like a knife to Steve’s chest.

“He will kill them all to make a point. We can save a few if we play along. It’s the only option I can see.”

“He might kill them all anyways.”

“What would you have me do, Dovagni?” Steve looked up to the podium. Lucius was there, with his wife sitting demurely next to him. They were both smiling, laughing. They looked perfect. Bucky was still there too, a goblet in his hand. He seemed to be engaged in a conversation with three other men and women, all gesturing animatedly.

Steve’s chest felt too tight, and breathing was almost impossible. He didn’t want this decision on him. The men looked at him, waiting for his orders. To his left, a slave woman had collapsed against the wall, just sobbing. Above him, Bucky drank and laughed. Behind him, his men shuffled, nervous and angry. He closed his eyes.

“We take them all out on this timer. We cut their game short. I’ll do the killing. Just guard my flank.” He swallowed and ran forward, towards the first slave in his sight. He heard his men fall in behind him, a tentative restoration to order.

The man in front of Steve dropped his sword in surprise, and turned to run. Steve caught him first.

He strangled him, felt the bones pop under his grip.

The crowd went wild.

Steve shook his head and blinked as sweat fell. The gladiators circled behind him, defending him. They obeyed the command. Lucius announced the first kill for his warriors from the stands.

Steve took off running again and caught the next slave before Lucius finished speaking.

The boy screamed in surprise, muttering a mangled juxtaposition of old Kaelish and the universal Abrelkan. He was much smaller than Steve, quicker as well. Steve couldn’t get his hands around his throat, the boy squirmed too much.

A sword blow sliced across his shin and he looked up in surprise. A woman had made it in the circle, past the gladiators, and was swinging her blade with all her might. She snarled at him--hair matted, teeth stained yellow with decay.

The young man ran, trying to slip out between the larger men. The gladiators were fighting hard now; there were groups of slaves advancing in waves and poking out with swords. Steve jumped after the man and caught him by the ankle, pulling him back through sand. He held him tightly against his own chest and wrapped a forearm around the smaller throat, squeezing as tightly as possible. Steve watched the woman who had made it even closer, and danced with her, around and around the small circle as the young slave breathed his last.

Satisfied that one more was dead, he threw the body down and advanced on her.

His leg was still bleeding. He reached down and tried to quench the flow of blood with the palm of his hand. Just a scratch, nothing too deep. He tried not to watch the woman’s eyes as he moved forward. If he saw himself reflected, he might throw up.

He jumped toward her, and she didn’t get the blade up in time. They both went to the ground hard, with Steve on top. His men were shouting now, screaming “Get back! Get __back__!”

The crowd was wild. They screamed and yelled, and Steve no longer knew who they were cheering for. The slaves were upon them all, much braver with the noise of the arena. The gladiators were trying to hold them all back without mortal injury, but the circle Steve was working in was growing smaller and smaller with each passing moment.

Steve scrabbled at the woman’s neck, but she thrashed below him, her fingernails scraping chunks of flesh from his chest. His time was running out. She had to die, he needed her to die so he could save the rest.

__Why wouldn’t she just die?_ _

He felt a rock in the sand, below him and clawed out for it, grasping it finally in his right fist.

He brought it down on her temple. Again. And again.

And again.

When he stood finally, he was covered in blood, dripping onto the white sand. His men were still around him, holding back the others. He spared a look back at the hourglass. There was still enough time.

“Let me through.” Steve shoved through men, not looking back, just looking for the next kill. A hand came down on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Let me through!” It hurt to speak.

“I will not let you carry this alone.” Mabakai’s voice was deep, centering.

It pulled Steve from his trance and he gasped in air. Amazing how fresh, how sweet a simple breath could taste though the world was covered in blood. Steve gasped, and pushed his fist to his mouth, determined not to sink down to his knees and let the screams through his walls. He held on, pushed back at the vicious imagery that threatened to assault his mind. Steve nodded his thanks and they stepped forward together. Their fists went up at the same time. “For KAEL!”

They ran forward, and the other gladiators filled formation--a glorious practiced movement. Mabakai and Steve hit the next group of slaves and began dancing of death.

Mabakai smacked his head down on one slave and he went down hard, frothy red bubbling from his lips. Steve struggled with the next--one more at home with a blade. He dodged the swing of metal once, then twice, the reached under with a swift hit to the neck. He turned to see a swarm of slaves overtake Mabakai.

“Dovagni, Magnus! To me!” He didn’t know how his voice reached them but the two gladiators turned and ran towards him.

They were three men against a dozen now, running at the place Mabakai had disappeared. They hit a blockade of metal, armor, and fear.

“Don’t hurt them!” Steve cried out, but no one could hear his voice through the melee. Magnus pushed forward, swinging out wildly with no regard for life in front of him.

“Stop! Stop!” Steve was frantic now, the brilliance of their months of practicing as a single unit turning to dust before his eyes.

Epacus ran in and pulled a slave off the heap. He bit down and tore a chunk of flesh from the man’s neck. Magnus was covered in blood. Dovagni was tearing through slaves, trying to reach Mabakai.

Steve sank down to his knees, unable to think. The Lliadan guards watched on from the edges of the arena, and Steve was frozen in time. Blood dripped from his forehead to his lips. He could taste the slaves he killed.

The sound was muted in his ears, the motion slow around him. He watched a slave cry out as gladiator struck him hard across the face--blood and spittle flying. He watched Magnus take a sword to the gut, crying out and falling back so hard on soft, soft sand. He was screaming _ _stop, stop!__ But his words were caked in blood--too heavy to fly free. He watched Dovagni yell in anger, run forward and into the slave, knocking yet another blade to the ground. Dovagni picked up the blade, and stabbed it into the woman’s chest, pinning her to the dirt.

He watched his men turn to beasts and the crowd cheered their delight at the savage display.

A yell broke through his stupor.

“Enough!” Mabakai strode forward, pushing up from the sand through a pile of men. He was covered in blood, dripping as he walked. “Enough!”

His voice boomed--projecting over the arena. He held a hand to Steve, who took it and stood, unable to form a sentence. “I can’t, I can’t anymore, I can’t–”

“Enough.” It was softer this time, but it cut to the quick. Mabakai turned to the podium, and Steve watched. The hourglass was still running. They still had time.

There were thirteen dead in front of his feet. The gladiators had killed almost as many as the guards would have.

But they had saved seven.

They had saved seven.

Steve bit his lip and gazed up at the podium. He drew in breath, tried to steady his voice. He put his fist in the air. “We have done your bidding, my Lord. Your warriors have killed at your command.” He let his hand fall to his side and bent down for a moment, rifling in the sand. His fingers closed around a smooth rock. He stood again, slowly this time, and wiped at his eyes, smearing blood across his face. “The next time you wish your warriors to thin your herd, you can allot us less time. We are better than you think.” Steve drew back and threw the rock.

It flew true and hit the hourglass squarely. It shattered in place, sand spilling everywhere. The broken glass caught each ray of sunlight and sparkled, beautifully, viciously.

“Gladiators! To me!”

His men formed up behind him, once again a perfect V. Magnus stood tall, gripping at his chest. Dovagni snarled, blood coating his teeth, Epacus, Marius, Leactei, Andosteni, Coro, Eppo, and Mabakai crossed their arms and looked up, fierce and proud.

“Thank you for the chance to show you our strength. We bow to Lliada.” Steve tapped his fist to his chest twice and his men followed. Then they all dropped to one knee.

Lucius held Steve’s eyes while the Lliadan crowd screamed in adoration. Steve watched him for a moment, then looked past. Bucky stood up and stepped forward, just past the group he’d been conversing with. The noise of the arena seemed to dim as their eyes met.

Bucky brought his fist up and mirrored a tap to his chest.

They were led from the arena in chains. The guards were nervous; their eyes flickered from the chains at Steve’s wrists back down to his feet. They wouldn’t look at him directly.

It had been a very competently carried out slaughter, and they saw Steve as the perpetrator.

He was.

He walked forward slowly, the other gladiators in front of him. Epacus was laughing--he nudged forward into Magnus and they shared some joke--both burst out in a loud guffaw. Mabakai turned and glared at them both, then kept the tattered train moving forward.

They reached the innermost space under the pits. The room was cold concrete and dark, lit only by the barest thread of sunlight that streamed in from slits at ceiling height. The gladiators lined up against the far wall, practiced and rehearsed in their movements. A cold blast of water hit them, the stream hard enough to bruise flesh.

Steve relished it. He watched his feet--watched the dirt, grime, and blood slough off and travel down the grates at the head of their toes. The water turned a horrid dusky pink and Steve could see bits of matter floating, stuck on the grates--too large to be sucked down with the current.

He could hear the groaning of the men beside him. He leaned forward and braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes to it all.

__He ran after her, through the field of bright blue and yellow cornflowers. She stopped, turning toward him and offering up a hand and the wind picked up, blowing her long red locks free from her hastily pinned braid. He stopped there, on the hill, his heart quickening in his chest, and she smiled once as her mouth moved._ _

__“What?” Steve called. Her eyes wrinkled in consternation and she mouthed again, but he still couldn’t hear. “Eilidh? What?”_ _

__Her hands moved to her throat and her eyes widened then. He tried to step forward but his feet were sinking. He looked down at the flowers, watched them dissolve into ash and sand. He looked up once more to see her reach for him--blood pouring from her mouth._ _

Steve blinked and shook his head. The rush of water had stopped, yet he stayed propped against the wall as water droplets condensed and dripped down his back and from his hair. A cloth hit his back and he turned to see the guard from the arena staring at him.

“You’ve been summoned.”

Steve pulled the long tunic over his head and worked the stiffness from his jaw. “What do you mean, I’ve been summoned?”

The other gladiators had stopped talking and were watching them both. Mabakai growled, low and deep in his throat. “We’re done. We’ve done our duty. Performed our act. It is time you escort us back to the ludus.”

“I was not speaking to you.” The guard seemed to have regain some of his confidence during the animalistic bathing ritual. He sneered as he spoke, and didn’t even deign to look at Mabakai. “You. Beast.” He watched Steve haughtily, as though he took pleasure in disrupting the gladiator’s carefully constructed routine. “You’ve been summoned to the podium.”

“It’s fine, Mabakai.” Steve looked over the guard’s head to nod at his companion. “Go. Eat and rest.” He nodded slowly at the guard, then turned to walk back the long and winding corridor.

The guard lashed out, swinging the heavy whip that they each kept coiled at a side. It wrapped around Steve’s arm, cutting into flesh and jerking him to a stop. He bit his tongue to keep from yelling out, and could taste the coppery blood. Steve picked at the leather, carefully unwinding it from his forearm where it was expertly wrapped.

“You assume too much, slave. Your wrists.”

Steve stared at him in anger--fire roiling inside his belly. He’d not been chained to visit Lucius for months. He was one slave--how much trouble would he possibly cause in the stands full of Lliadans? Steve slowly extended both wrists in front of him.

The guard smirked as he walked forward and quickly manacled Steve’s hands together. “Head down.”

“Excuse me?” The anger rolled off of Steve now, barely contained. Every muscle was tight with the desire to lash out.

“Head. Down.”

He forced himself to bend forward and look down. The guard reached forward and snapped a chain leash to Steve’s slave collar.

“You look much nicer as a proper pet.”

“I’d watch your words this deep inside the pit. Despite the assurances I’m sure you’ve received, not all the gladiators are quite as docile as I appear to be.” Steve breathed with fury, but contained himself--stayed perfectly still.

“I’ll take my chances. Oh. I almost forgot.” He turned briefly and looked to the other guards behind them both--the guards who were lining up the rest of the gladiators for their short trip back to the ludus. “Pick two for the finale. Get them ready. The rest can return.” He tugged on the leash and Steve had no choice but to trot at his heels or be dragged by the neck.

“What? What finale? What two?” He fought to turn his head, but he couldn’t see anything, just heard yelling that grew more distant as they turned each corner.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“What two, damn it, what two?” His stomach turned at the thought of his men being forced back out into the pit without him, at the thought of what fresh horror Lucius may have planned as punishment for him, for his disruption of the murder of slaves.

His voice fell against the concrete walls, hard and echoing. There was no response.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****Chapter 14 Warnings*** **
> 
> Very Dub-Con Situation

The sand was blindingly white from the podium. Steve almost raised an arm to his face, but the heavy chains at his wrist clanked with noise, and he stopped. The General turned from his seat.

“How wonderful.” The General spoke dryly, no hint of inflection at his words.

Steve noted the empty goblet beside his seat and the smoking censor at his wrist. He wondered how far gone the man truly was by this point in the festivities.

Bucky stood from his seat and made to move towards Steve, clear panic in his eyes. Steve tensed, gave the smallest shake of his head, and forced himself to look away. He couldn’t be a part of that disaster right now. He needed to calm the rolling nausea that was fighting its way up his throat.

“Look everyone! My mighty Beast has arrived!” This announcement crescendoed through the podium. Lliadans the next section over turned their heads at the General’s words. “Well?” Lucius caught Steve’s eyes and motioned towards himself. “Come. Come! I wish to celebrate with you. You’ve done such a marvelous job of culling my herd. Lets celebrate.”

Steve walked carefully down the steps, well aware of the taut tug of chain from the leash that the guard still held behind him. He picked his way down the wooden slats, trying to tune out the yells and screams that were coming from the fight in the arena below. He came to a halt in front of Lucius.

“Well?” The General smiled coyly up at him. Very drunk then. Lucius was typically in perfect control of every breath, action, sentence. He was cold and brutal, but that meant Steve knew what to expect. This was new territory. This was frightening.

Steve dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

He felt tension emanating from Bucky somewhere behind him. He wanted to come to his feet again and turn, tell him to stop it, tell him once again _this isn’t your war._ He couldn’t. He could only face the man who held lashing rights over his body and cast his eyes down and try not to tremble against his bonds. Try not to rise up and strangle the murder. Try not to let everything that he had so carefully constructed in the past months crumble to ash.

“Ah, yes. Now you choose to get on your knees. Now you choose to obey.” The General’s fingers were pawing through his hair, and Steve wanted to vomit. He couldn’t be this man with Bucky here. “You gave us quite a show.”

The smoke from the wrist censor tickled Steve’s lungs. He wanted to cough. Instead, he steadied his breathing and let the heady rush fill his senses. He tried to disappear in it, let the herbs fill him with their steady, pulsing intoxicant. Lucius noticed.

“Did you want something else?”

“No,” Steve muttered. Dust stained the floor and somewhere distant, the audience shrieked.

“You only need to ask.”

Steve knew what the General liked. They’d been having meetings for weeks now--months. He knew exactly what he wanted.

“Please, master. I’d like a glass of wine.” The words tasted foul on his tongue, but he needed to disappear.

The General snapped his fingers above Steve’s head, and a slave poured another glass immediately. Lucius held it down towards Steve and tipped it carefully towards his lips.

Steve drank, his stomach churning. He sensed movement behind him--somewhere Bucky was watching the entire exchange. He opened his mouth wider and let Lucius pour the alcohol down his throat. The sun beat down on his body and sweat beaded at his temples, but the blissful fuzz of inebriation dulled his senses.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Steve mouthed.

The General slapped him across the mouth and Steve tasted blood again--the same spot he had bitten his tongue earlier. “Better?” He enunciated the word this time, drawing it out.

Steve flinched, an affectation he’d developed to satisfy the Lliadans thirst for dominance. Later, he would kill them all.

“Yes, Master.”

Lucius smiled at him then, an acrid, corrosive thing. He patted his leg, and Steve shuffled forward on his knees to lay his head in his lap. Steve focused on the dirt. On the wooden slats. On the shuffling sounds of the thousands of Lliadans moving and cheering and surrounding him.

Somewhere distant, the announcer called out the final fight.

“From House Barnes again, we present to you, the people of Lliad City: a fight to the death!”

The screams grew even louder, and a slivering cold crept up the back of Steve’s neck.

“You’ve already seen them slaughter those unworthy for even the lowest level of servitude! But now, a fight truly spectacular. A fight between two of House Barnes’s finest! Gladiator Epacus and Gladiator Mabakai!”

Steve shot back and gasped as the leash pulled tight. Lucius had wrapped his hand around the chain and held him there, halfway from rising from his resting spot on the General’s thigh.

“Calm down, my Beast.”

“What did you do?” Steve snarled, still trying to pull back fruitlessly.

“You thought to usurp my first show of strength. I’m merely giving the people what they want. A long, drawn out battle. Vicious and brutal. Savages, fighting for life. Unfortunately, one of them will have to die.” He shrugged his shoulders and picked up his goblet, brimming with fresh wine. “A true show.”

“They already fought! They obeyed you! We served you, don’t do this, Lucius, don’t–”

The chain snapped tight, and Steve fell forward, his face once again against Lucius’s thigh. He struggled for breath and felt Lucius already hard against him. “Please--”

The chain jerked again, and Steve knew what was wanted of him.

Bucky couldn’t watch. Each exchange between his father and Steve made him want to vomit, made him want to jump up and throw himself in the pit below to fight.

Made him want to give up.

He tried to focus instead on the fight happening below. He recognized Mabakai--huge and forboding, complete in leather armor with an enormous blade between his two hands. The other, Epacus, was smaller, but quick. He was beautifully golden and young--long blond curls dancing in the gusts of wind that swept the sand up in cascading torrents. He carried a heavy mace in one hand and a shield in the other. He was practiced, lithe, fast.

He would be dead within the quarter-hour. Mabakai was far too strong.

Bucky knew Lucius had planned this.

Lucius was smart, manipulative, conniving. He’d have had a plan for a plan for a plan, all carefully thought out and executed well in advance. He’d known what Steve would do when confronted with the choice of killing his people. He’d likely ordered that Steve be brought to him after the fight before the day had even begun. He’d known that he would force Steve to his knees while Steve’s companions fought to the death below.

He’d most certainly even guessed that Bucky would warn Steve of the fight.

Bucky shivered as Mabakai got the first hit, his sword taking Epacus’s shield in a heavy blow. Epacus cried out below them, and the shield dropped from his arm. Bucky watched as he stumbled back, holding his arm to his chest carefully. His eyes glazed, but he shook himself once, then dropped back into fighting position. He was well trained.

He would still die.

A low groan came from his left side and Bucky closed his eyes, trying desperately to drown out the sounds Lucius was making--the noises Steve was making on his knees, servicing Bucky’s father.

How dare he.

How dare Steve drop like that, giving up so easily? He didn’t even try to fight it, he didn’t try to break free of the chains, to refuse him, to even look Lucius in the eye and stand tall.

Steve spoke of honor and of morality and of the Kaelish code, yet he didn’t fight. He accepted his place as slave, and Bucky hated him for it. He hated him with a passion he’d never known he had within him., With a terrible guilt, Bucky realized he’d never known a hatred this pure, this undiluted. He wanted to fight him.

How dare he.

With a sickening realization, Bucky pinpointed the source of his anger. How dare his father.

Bucky looked across the podium to where Messalina sat. She watched the fight below, a thin smile illuminating her features. She paid no attention to her husband with his head thrown back, giving himself over to the pleasures of the flesh.

This was a normal part of their culture. Sex was not something to be ashamed of or to hide. Sexual desires were the basest part of their humanity, so they treated them as such. Yet, as Bucky thought back through all of his memories of his mother, Messalina never once took part. Even now, he watched her raise a clear glass to her lips. Water.

Not for the first time, he considered how much of his family’s hold on Lliad City was her doing--not the raw and brutal strength of his father, but the quiet and exquisite manipulation of his mother’s designs.

He turned back to Lucius. Took his eyes off the despicable, horrid match below and looked at Steve. He saw Steve’s right hand gripping Lucius’s thigh tightly, his thumb just below where his head bowed. Bucky could feel that grip on his own flesh, and he shuddered with the thought.

Steve’s head bobbed down and Bucky watched him swallow around his father’s cock. Marcus stood behind Bucky, engaging in a lively conversation with two young women from other families. A few heads of other houses sat nearby--anxious to be back in the good graces of the Barnes Family now that their superiority had been proven once again. They all watched the fight below.

None of them paid attention to the slave before them.

A few had slaves from their own holdings with them, pleasuring their masters as they watched the brutality.

It was normalcy, this blatant exhibition of power and lust. It was utterly Lliadan to display the signs of your wealth outwardly in any fashion possible, and sex was no different.

Bucky was sick with the weight of his people’s sin.

His father was stronger than this. The Barnes Family set the standard in Lliad City. Lucius should be a figure of perfection, a monument to change. Yet he was no better than any other royal family. No better than the so-called barbaric Kaelish tribes that they fought to bring to heel, and Bucky hated him for it..

Lucius finished with a groan, and Steve pulled free, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well?” Lucius spoke.

“Thank you, Master.” Steve’s words were quiet and subdued--more obeisant than Bucky had ever heard him before.

Lucius settled back on his chair, bringing his wrist towards his face and inhaling deeply. “You may leave.”

Steve stood and stopped. He caught Bucky’s eyes once and looked down again. Ashamed. He caught Bucky’s eyes once and looked down again. Ashamed.

Bucky looked away.

The stomping in the stands began. Below, Mabakai stood above Epacus, his sword raised above his head, waiting, waiting for the signal.

“You may leave.” Lucius snarled.

Steve turned, pain in his eyes, desperation warring with hopelessness. The guard picked up the leash and led Steve from the podium as Lucius stood once again.

The thumping grew louder, louder, louder.

“Kill him.”

The sword dropped.

After the fight, everything moved in a blur. Bucky stood with the crowds and clapped, a pressed smile forcing its way from his mouth. He called upon a servant to bring more wine, and he drank it as quickly as possible.

They moved then, from podium back to manse to prepare for the after-party. The buzz began to fade. He couldn’t let that happen, so he demanded a bottle be brought to him in his rooms. The servant delicately uncorked the vintage, offering the bottle for the first smell before the pour, and Bucky grabbed it and raised the neck to his mouth.

Antonia came, her fingers deftly touching at his skin, raising goosebumps on his flesh. Bucky lashed out at her, screaming at her to get out and leave him be. She did, her eyes cast down in obeisance. He grew angry as he drank, bitter and ashamed.

The wine fuzzed at his senses again, and he let the warmth envelope him, carrying him into the next room over--to the bed and the fireplace. He stumbled to the wooden mantel and caught himself there on the palm of his hand. His other hand reached out, traced along the backside, along the hard ridges of tally marks carved by his own hand. There were more now. New additions.

_“This one stays alive.”_

_Bucky flinched at the harsh tug of the hand that pulled his head back._

_“Kill the survivors. All but him. He’s worth something.”_

_The man holding Bucky gripped his hair even tighter and pulled him up until his feet were scrabbling for purchase. He laughed. “He’s just another rich lordling, trying to carve his path to glory through the bodies of Kaels. Let me have him, Aoric. Let me have him.”_

_“He’s a Barnes.”_

_Aoric stepped forward, and reached for the leather cord at Bucky’s neck. Bucky snapped forward, hissing as chunks of his scalp tore, but he bit down, grazing the man’s fingers with his teeth. Aoric swore and backhanded him across the face, and Bucky fell back, dazed for a moment, blood spurting from his nose. Aoric fished the leather cording out and held it for Bucky’s captor to see. “A Barnes. The family crest. They hold the Emperor's ear--and sit at his right hand side, holding all of Lliad City. They’ll pay good money for his return. Or be willing to barter something more worthwhile.”_

_“Games,” the man holding him scoffed. “All useless games. I’d rather geld him now. In front of his men. Watch him scream ‘till his voice breaks.”_

_Bucky tried to still his beating heart and wait for a moment, any moment to break free. His head was so muddled and his mouth tasted of blood._

_“Then I’ll take sword arm. Next his eyes–-”_

_“Enough. We keep him alive. Do what you wish, but no lasting damage. We barter.”_

_Aoric turned and walked away, and Bucky was kicked to the ground. A booted foot took him in the back, and the next kick shattered his ribs. He wouldn’t make a sound. He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction._

_He wouldn’t scream._

Bucky shook his head, watching the mantle meld in and out of his vision. He steadied himself, removed his fingers from the hated hash marks, and left his chambers, passing the great hall that was still in preparation mode for the nights festivities, and exiting the manse.

The celebrations had already begun in the city below. The sun sank low on the horizon, but it still illuminated the bright bursts of color that rose up from the civilian quarters.

The powders were ground from the dried seeds of the hespa flower and sold by the pound during market weeks. Villagers would stock up for weeks before an arena fight, saving it all for this one raucous moment where they threw it high in the air, letting the vivid red dust explode across the city. The wind carried it, depositing it on the sparkling white paths and white stone houses, muddying up the fountain water and clinging to flesh. It illuminated everything in a bloody hue.

Bucky ignored it all, his feet set on their path down to the ludus.

The gladiators had just returned from the arena. They were still lined up and manacled as guards stepped slowly down the line, inspecting each man. Steve stood at the front of them all, his golden head bowed. Bucky couldn’t quite see his eyes. He imagined them full of pain, full of anger at the loss of another man.

He took another sip from his flask. “Ave!” He called, and the guards turned.

“Master Barnes! Should you be…” the guard looked to his mates and smiled as though sharing some sort of inside joke, “readying yourself for the pleasures of the evening?”

Bucky cocked his head and grinned. “Why do you think I’ve come?” He turned to the gladiators, watching them thoughtfully for a moment. “I want to speak with that one.” He pointed towards Steve who lifted his head, looked up at him from hooded eyes and scowled.

“The Beast?” The guard didn’t move, just watched Bucky, clearly confused of his motivations.

“His name is Steve.” Bucky took another drink from the flask at his hip, and the guard moved back, clearly chastised. “Steve,” Bucky repeated, walking forward.

Steve looked down again, refusing to answer.

The guard behind him was quick, too quick for Bucky to stop him, or even announce some sort of warning. The snick of the lash echoed loudly through the air right before falling on Steve’s back.

He cried out in pain and surprise, falling forward on his knees but still refusing to look at Bucky.

“Your betters are speaking, slave–” The guard cut off as Bucky strode forward and backhanded him across the face.

“Your betters, sir,” Bucky enunciated each word, his tongue dripping with venom, “would appreciate you not marring their wares.”

The guard looked at him, shocked. Blood was pouring through his fingers from a split above his eye. “M-m-master,” he trembled, “I apologize for any offense…”

Bucky turned away from him. “Steve?”

“Go back home, Bucky.” Steve’s voice was muffled and hoarse as he spoke directly into the dirt. “Just go home.”

It was like a fist to the gut, this casual dismissal of him. Bucky took another gulp, and watched the gladiators as they looked on, uncomfortable, unsure.

He turned on his heels and walked away.

The din was astonishing. This was to be the last large celebration of its kind before the General led the Lliadan armies to Kael, and everyone had come. Bucky leaned against a wall and signalled another slave, found another drink, watched the chaos.

No one spoke to him.

He saw Marcus on the same side of the room he was, and caught his eye, but the man looked away. Verina was there on her knees in front of Marcus looking to curry favor with someone else this time, anyone else, anyone but Bucky.

He found himself wandering through the hall, stopping to greet men and women who he’d once counted among his friends. They all smiled haughtily, then moved from him, desperate to get away. No one wanted to be associated with a first son who’d been removed from the line of succession.

There was a line of gladiators near the pool again, and he felt a flicker of hope in his chest for a mere moment, but it was quickly replaced by dull anger. He didn’t want to see _him_ here, so dutifully obsolete, obeying once again. Bucky moved down the line, inspecting the new men, but didn’t recognize any. They were all young, recently acquired. Bucky stepped back and watched as the men and women of the royal houses draped their bodies over the slaves, tempting them with sweets and wines and flesh, daring them to break formation.

Not until Lucius deemed it acceptable were they to service the guests, and even this was a game, as the guests tried to get them to break formation, to react to touch before they were told.

Bucky scowled as he saw his father then, immaculate and glowing in a crisp white tunic. He looked fresh now, no longer drunk, no longer in the clutches of orgasmic pleasure. He was surrounded by sycophants fawning at his feet, and Bucky was sick with the disgusting betrayal that welled up within him at this newfound hatred of his family--of all he was.

He ducked his head and brushed past guests, knocking into a slave carrying a platter of sweetmeats. The man fell, and Bucky didn’t bend to help him, didn’t turn to apologize.

A hand brushed his elbow and he pulled short as Liat came into view.

“James,” she began, but he pushed past her.

“Don’t. Wouldn’t want you to sully your father’s reputation by speaking with me.” He walked briskly down the hallway but she called after him, her voice echoing down the corridor.

“This is foolish, you realize. This breakdown of yours.” She gestured towards him with her hands and he could make out the traces of fine-cut musculature that framed her upper arms. “There are bigger things at play.”

He didn’t have the desire to process her words. There was a half-empty goblet of something on the table beside him and he picked it up and drank, then let his feet carry him from the manse.

Bucky fell twice trodding back down the steep path to the ludus. The moon was a sliver of a crescent in the night sky, and though the city celebrated all about them, the grassy valley was keenly desolate--an emptiness that grew with every step forward.

He came to the first gate and nodded at the new guard on duty. The man shot up, straightened and saluted Bucky.

“Sir! I wasn’t...there was supposed to be…” his eyes wandered behind Bucky, towards the well-lit manse. The sounds of festivities carried down the hillside and danced among the blades of grass. The man swallowed and dropped his hand to his side. “I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.”

“You may go.” Bucky tried to keep himself from swaying. His voice sounded too loud in his ears. “Go. I want to inspect my wares.”

“Are you....sure?” The man looked concerned, but his eyes quested towards the town--towards the celebrations that were happening below.

“You have a wife? A family?”

The man nodded.

“Go. Celebrate. It’ll be the last one for a while. Have a drink for me!” Bucky giggled, then pressed his hand to his mouth, stifling the sound.

“Uh. Yes. Ok. Sure!” The man disappeared into the small guard house for a moment, then popped back out again without his sword. “Sir! I’m so sorry. Sure, _Sir!_ ”

Bucky just waved him off and waited as he disappeared down the rocky trail that led to the city below.

He entered the gate, slowly easing the padlock off its hinges. He could hear voices carrying through the small kitchen window of the Ludus. They sounded like murmurs, whispers on the breeze. Bucky breathed in the fresh night air as he walked towards the ludus and thought of red, of anger, of fire. He thought of Steve, bend down in front of his father as the gladiators fought below. He thought of Steve in his bed, running those calloused hands down his own scarred backside, and a wave of hatred surged through his body.

Bucky pushed at the rickety door with all his might, and it flew inwards with a slap.

Men looked up from the table in surprise. Bucky didn’t say anything, just watched the flickers of shock and dismay dance about their features before the stone cold slave mask coalesced in place of emotion. They didn’t want to see him here. They didn’t want the man who held lashing rights over their bodies here to witness an evening ritual, a silent space, a moment of grieving for men lost in the arena during the days trials.

“Fight me.” Bucky spoke dryly, the words harsh in the dimness of the room.

A chair skritched back across the stone as a gladiator stood. “Excuse me, sir. Many apologies, please be more clear in your request for us.” He looked to the other men for guidance, and they nodded, still watching Bucky, unsure of what to do. “We...you want us to fight for you?”

“Am I not worthy?” Bucky grinned as the man looked towards him, confused. “Yes! Fight me,” Bucky repeated. “I want to fight. You’ve trained with me by your side. You’ve taught me your ancient battle arts and I’ve practiced. It’s a beautiful evening for training! Now, who is willing to come out to the yard and try their hand against mine?”

The man standing watched him for only a moment, before making the choice and bending to his knee. “I am honored to fight, Master.”

“Good.” Bucky turned and walked back out the door, not looking back. He was still the master here, he still carried the Barnes name despite being stripped of his duties to his house. They would follow. The alcohol still buzzed wildly through his blood, making his palms sweat and his head heavy. He walked out to the center of the field and turned, his hands outstretched. The gladiators stopped at the fence, watching as their brother stepped out to the center.

Bucky circled him, the alcohol in his blood making him confident in every step. The gladiator watched him warily. _He’s afraid of me. He should be afraid of me. I am a warrior!_ Each thought danced on light toes through his head and he smiled in excitement. _I am a fighter!_

He shot forward and tapped at the gladiator who raised an arm in defense. Bucky stumbled--found himself on his backside in the dirt, looking up at the larger man. His head swam and for a moment he was confused, but he hopped up again, full of energy and desire to fight.

“You can do better than that! Fight me!” He lashed out and the man ducked back, just avoiding the swing. “I am not your master here! Fight!”

A crowd was gathering--men were exiting the ludus and stepping up to the fence. Steve must be somewhere, Bucky thought. Watching. Waiting. A flash of emotion exploded through him, and he shot forward, wrapping his arms around the gladiator and taking him to the ground. Even inebriated, with his head pounding and his temples throbbing, he could win a match against his father’s prized fighters. Triumphantly, he struck, catching the man in a blow to the cheek.

The gladiator struggled underneath him for a moment, then called up, “I yield. Master, I yield!”

Bucky rolled off of him and came to his feet once more. “I am not your master!” He laughed, the alcohol still coursing powerfully in his veins and watched the man nod his head ever so slightly at his words. Bucky danced backwards. “Who’s next?”

There was a murmuring rumble of sound at the fence, but no one stepped forward.

“Who is _next_! Who will fight? You are gladiators! You are warriors! Prove yourselves!”

Another man came forward, and Bucky recognized him from the arena. Magnus. He bowed his head. “I will fight you, master, if you command it.”

Bucky shouted in glee and thrust his fist in the air. “Well met, brother!” he called out, sinking back down to his knees. The gladiator looked at him, a flicker of some emotion crossing his face at that word, that _brother_ , and for a moment Bucky regretted speaking. But he shook it off. The sun had set, leaving the cool breeze of evening air in its place . It was the perfect time to train.

Magnus was even larger than the first gladiator. His tanned skin glistened in the slivered light of the moon, and his eyes were dangerous. Bucky couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait to prove himself against this champion of men.

He stumbled to the side and cursed--his booted foot catching on the sand. His movements were convulsive and spasmodic. He tried to channel his thoughts into one thread and push it out through his limbs, but he stumbled again. Why was his head swimming? Magnus shot towards him and tried to trap Bucky--tried to wrap his arms around Bucky’s chest, but Bucky squirmed free, laughing, dismissing the betrayal of his body.

“You must have better than this! You are supposed to be the best stock!” He turned and grinned, laughing towards the men at the fence. “Where are the warriors? Where are the true fighters?”

Magnust leapt forward again, but it was too slow, too cautious. Bucky just danced out of reach again, then circled back and wrapped his forearm around Magnus’s throat. The man growled underneath him, and Bucky could feel his muscles working, but he couldn’t get free.

“Fight me!” He demanded, almost petulant, but Magnus couldn’t escape from his grip.

Bucky reached for his right arm and wrenched it up behind his back, pulling hard.

He pulled just past control position--almost to the point of dislocating--and Magnus growled in return, “I yield. I yield!”

Bucky let go quickly, letting the man stumble from his grasp. Somewhere, deep inside, something was screaming and yelling his name. Some small fragment of consciousness was seeped in the wrongness of what he was doing, but the heady rush of the fight and victories was enough for him to shove it down. “Who will fight me next?”

“I will.”

A thrill of anticipation burgeoned deep within him as Bucky scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar voice.

There. Steve, pushing through men, entered the field. “I will fight you.” His eyes burned with rage as he stepped forward.

Bucky swallowed, hard and thick and looked up, into those blue eyes. He felt an irrevocable hopelessness spike. He was dizzy and exhausted, and he wanted to collapse and sleep off the heaviness and pain behind his eyes, but mostly he wanted to lash out--to fight, to feel Steve’s arms around him.

“Stop this.” Steve stepped forward and spoke under his breath with soft wisps of air, but his nose pressed against Bucky’s, his face filled with anger. “Why are you forcing my men to battle?”

“I force no one.” The thrill of the matches still burned brightly in his blood and Bucky looked around, trying to find someone else who wanted to throw their might against his once in the ring.

“They are slaves. They will not turn you away.”

It was as if someone had doused him in icy cool water from the river. “They...they wanted to fight. We were training…” Bucky’s words trailed off as he realized the implications of his earlier orders.

“They just spent hours in the hot sun. Fighting for the entertainment of your people. Watching a brother die. I highly doubt they came back to their quarters looking for another chance to prove themselves adequate warriors. Why are you fighting them?”

“Why wouldn’t you speak to me earlier?”

“Why are you fighting them?”

Steve was implacable, impenetrable, as moveable as stone. Bucky looked away, withering in that gaze. “You got down on your knees for my father,” he whispered, and there it was. The wound had festered, grown black with poison. He choked with it.

“Then hate _him_.” Steve’s face was still full of anger, but his eyes had softened the slightest.

Bucky growled, and shoved with all his might. His hands connected with Steve’s chest, and for just a moment that connection of flesh was enough to sustain him, weaken his impulse for violence, but he snapped back and watched Steve fall backwards onto the sand. Bucky jumped forward and landed on top of Steve, ready to let his fists fly.

It was not as easy this time as it was with the first gladiator.

Steve rolled and pinned Bucky underneath him, then cuffed him once across the cheekbone. Bucky’s left eye started to swell immediately, and the world in all its swaying haziness managed to grow even darker. Bucky screamed in rage and pushed up with all his strength--just enough to throw Steve from him.

Bucky lashed out with his feet, and caught Steve in the soft part of his stomach, but once again, quicker than he thought possible, he found himself on his back with Steve above him.

“Not as easy, when you fight a man who isn’t cowed by your ownership?”

“I hate them.” Bucky drew his knees up to his chest and snapped his head forward, grazing Steve across the jaw. He used Steve’s momentary pause to wriggle free and come back up to his feet. Every moment he was moving slower and slower. Nausea was overtaking his senses as the world danced and churned around him. His body drifted to one side and then another as he barely avoided each of Steve’s blows.

“Do not take your anger at your situation out on my men.”

“I’m trying to show you that I can fight! I will fight for you!”

Faster than he could see, Steve jumped in and hit at his shin, causing his entire body to collapse. Steve fell on top of him, and they rolled through the sand, grit and dirt sticking to Bucky’s skin. He was sick with the motion, sick with the emotion that packed tightly in his chest.

They came to a stop near the fenceline, Steve once again holding Bucky down.

“Get off of me!” Bucky screamed and thrashed underneath him, but Steve cuffed him again. Bucky’s ears were ringing now. “I can fight!” he screamed. “I can fight!” but Steve continued to hold him down, and Bucky had nowhere to go.

He struggled, he kicked, he caught Steve once in a blow across the face and blood dripped down from Steve’s nose, but still he couldn’t escape. They stayed like this, the chill air blowing and Bucky panting underneath him--something so familiar yet so wrong--and they held each other there on the sand of the practice grounds until the only sound in the night was Bucky’s harsh breathing.

“Do not order my men to fight you, ever again.”

That cold voice was back, and Bucky winced.

“I won,” he began but stuttered to a stop at Steve’s glare.

“They cannot beat you. They will not try. Do you know what the punishment is for a slave who injures his master?”

It hit him then, the enormity of what he’d done. He sobered with it, the remains of the flighty, alcohol induced power dropped from him and suddenly he was only a sad, pathetic child, held down in the dirt by a man much bigger than him, in strength and in soul. He hurt for these men, yet felt completely powerless to help them.

“They would be killed if they hurt you,” Steve continued. “They would be strung up, and beaten until they could no longer draw a breath. Magnus and Leotus both pulled their punches. They let you win.”

“I can fight,” Bucky tried, the guilt from his actions not outweighing his consuming desire for validation. “Please, I have to do something, Steve!”

“You will not fight with us. I won’t have that on me. This is our battle. Not yours.” Steve let him free, and pushed himself off of Bucky’s chest.

Steve sat back in the dirt, his arms crossed over his legs. He looked up to the night sky and Bucky watched his jaw tremble, watched the pain and uncertainty that glimmered across his pale skin.

“I do what I must to survive. To lead them. I can’t drag you with me. It’s bad enough that you know of what we plan.” Steve’s words floated free, carried upwards and away by the breeze. “I don’t like the choices I must make.” This was even quieter--a reverent statement.

Bucky looked behind him and noticed the gladiators, muttering and stepping away from the fence--walking back to the kitchens, to their beds, to their home. He shook his head, and reached out his hand, apprehension crawling over his bare skin like tiny pit sandcrawlers.

He placed his palm gently over the back of Steve’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t fight with us, Bucky. It will tear you apart inside, this betrayal of your people.”

“I know,” he whispered. Steve didn’t move his hand, and he let his weight settle. The warmth between their bodies shuddered outwards and goosebumps freckled up his arm. “But they are not my people any longer. What would you have me do?”

The breeze picked up and Bucky smelled the smoke from the village below. Every so often, a beat of a drum, the scream of a reveler was picked up and carried on the wind to the top of the hill where they sat. He listened and watched and dug his feet into the coolness of the white sand.

“What should I do?” he repeated, letting the words fall from his lips and speckle that clean palate like drops of thick blood.

Steve tensed for a moment, then sighed out, letting his body relax. His hand turned underneath Bucky’s and their fingers entwined. “There’s another Lliadan working to help free the slaves.”

Bucky turned at Steve’s words. “What?”

“Another Lliadan. Someone is working from the inside to help spur the house slaves to action.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “No, that’s not right.”

“Oh?” Steve asked, mock surprise evident in his voice? “And you, Sir James of House Barnes just happens to know of every political movement in Lliad City? The very James Barnes of _initiate the challenge_ notoriety?”

Bucky pulled his hand away, sickened at the blatant reminder of his own words to Marcus--the beginning of his fall from grace. “Don’t.”

Steve reached out and pulled Bucky’s hand back to him--held it gently but firmly, pressed into the sand. “You need to learn to hide your feelings better. It doesn’t take much to ruffle you. If you want to be a part of the rebellion, you need to learn to lie.”

“I want to fight.” His words rang childish and petulant, but Bucky refused to give in.

“I...” Steve trailed off and Bucky sensed the creeping fingers of change within him.

“Let me fight for you, Steve.”

Steve watched him silently. “As I just mentioned, there is another Lliadan. We don’t know who they are, what they plan to do, how they are executing their movements so undetected. If you want to help, you could start there.”

The sudden diversion of Bucky’s plea was not cleverly done, but there was a simple thrill in letting someone else command him and take charge. When they were together, Bucky could fall into this unfamiliar space of not having to make decisions. Of not having to lead. Of not being in charge. It was something small, the tiniest of keys in the most delicate of locks, but it turned inside of him and opened a warmth that he didn’t know he was missing. He let his head fall--the smallest curve of his spine, the slightest genuflection. There was an openness here that Bucky filled perfectly. They were both changing, both moving into a future that had once seemed impossible.

Steve nodded. “Good.” His hand tightened over Bucky’s.

“Will you hurt them?” The words surprised him, shocked him at how raw they tasted. Bucky tilted his head to look at Steve and watch his deep blue eyes narrow.

“War is not a gentle past time.” Steve finally spoke, his voice thick with emotion. “Innocents will die. By my hand. By yours.”

Bucky nodded. “I know,” he sighed. The screaming picked up its pace, frothing and churning on the wind. The air was heavy with the floral scent of hespa powder.

Bucky reached forward with his free hand and and touched Steve’s temple with the pad of one finger. He traced down his face, down his firm jaw and soft neckline. Steve met his eyes and a fire danced between them. Bucky swallowed once more, and spoke--words burning with fervor.

“Let’s burn it all to the ground.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its finished! I almost can't believe it. Thank you so much to all of you who took the time to read, leave kudos, and especially all of you incredible commenters. I appreciate every little bit of love you have shown and am just thrilled that I was able to write this and share it with you all!
> 
> And to [Crow Sizna](http://crow-sizna.tumblr.com): you have been an absolute joy to work with from start to finish. Your art is amazing, and you have been an incredible bang partner!

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](http://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com)!


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